


Awakenings

by Guanin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Sherlock Holmes, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Bisexuality, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: John’s breath shook the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, breath which was pleasantly warm and bathed the skin of Sherlock’s neck and collarbone in a tantalizing way that Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wished to analyze at the moment, yet was doing anyway, because how couldn’t he? It incited a slight tremble in his skin at first, the slightest pricking sensation as his breath shuddered to a stop in his throat at the sudden and unexpected intimacy of it. John’s breath, John’s, brushing against him and Sherlock letting it remain so close as if it belonged there, no more alien to his own body than the clothes he wore. Because it was John’s.





	1. Chapter 1

John was drooling on his shoulder. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would certainly not have allowed anyone to rest their head on him for more than the moment it took to flick them off, much less let them go so far as to spew saliva on his shirt, which was soaked through to the skin by this point, yet instead of making any motion to remove the offending source of such displeasure, Sherlock was frozen in place. 

Because it was John. He had yet to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion as to why the specificity of this being John’s body tucked against him in an exhausted slumber altered his usual reaction, still floundering around a perplexing list of observations. 

John was his friend.

John was one of only three people who comfortably fit that description as far as Sherlock understood it. 

John was physically drained from running around for nearly twenty-four hours straight to resolve their latest case, which included a whole week of very little sleep, which didn’t bother Sherlock as much, as per his usual insomnia, yet John required a larger amount of it. 

Despite his tiredness, John had agreed to remain downstairs with him as Sherlock typed up his final observations of the case so that he might serve as a sounding board, so his falling asleep on the couch could be interpreted as being Sherlock’s fault. 

Despite the erroneous impression that Sherlock seemed to give at times, Sherlock did care immensely about John’s comfort and welfare.

John’s breath shook the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, breath which was pleasantly warm and bathed the skin of Sherlock’s neck and collarbone in a very tantalizing way that Sherlock wasn’t sure if he wished to analyze at the moment, yet was doing anyway, because how couldn’t he? It incited a slight tremble in his skin at first, the slightest pricking sensation as his breath shuddered to a stop in his throat at the sudden and unexpected intimacy of it. John’s breath, _John’s_ , brushing against him and Sherlock letting it remain so close as if it belonged there, no more alien to his own body than the clothes he wore. Because it was John’s. 

Why should that make a difference? Feeling anyone else’s breath on him for any significant amount of time would have annoyed him to the extreme, yet John’s felt oddly, bewilderingly, comfortable.

John was the key factor here. If any other person had fallen atop Sherlock like this, Sherlock wouldn’t have suffered their presence for even half this long, not even Mrs. Hudson, although, in her case, he’d probably remain still for a few seconds before gently pushing her off. So… John. He wasn’t moving because it was John resting against him.

Said resting gave Sherlock a little flutter in his belly. The best he got when he analyzed the emotions around that flutter was “excitement”, “peace”, “joy”, and “terror”, none of which made any sense. What was so terribly exciting about having another man resting against his shoulder, and why should he be afraid of it? Annoyed, sure, but the distinct rise in his heart rate the longer he analyzed this question indicated a clear fear response, yet it was paired with the aforementioned “peace” and “joy”, contradictory emotions that should not be present at the same time as the former. 

Hang on. Hadn’t something similar occurred to him when he first met John? Yes. As Sherlock had presented him with the flat, and subsequently in the cab on the way to the crime scene, when John had delightedly complimented his deductions rather than turn up his nose and accuse him of some sort of trick like people usually did. The hearty feeling had persisted while they shared a smile together, and then after returning home from chasing that cab as they leaned against the wall at the landing catching their breath, Sherlock grinning as he announced what John would have figured out on his own eventually, that he was staying. 

Joy. Peace. Excitement. And terror. The first three had occurred because all signs had pointed towards John remaining for the long haul, and not storming off permanently at Sherlock’s first non-verbal bout or him playing the violin at three in the morning or leaving a jar of eyes in the fridge. Because John had spent the last couple of hours laughing with him, and not at him, and because sharing the investigation with him had produced a warm glow in his belly that he hadn’t felt in far too long, so much so that he had convinced himself that he didn’t miss it anymore. Yet John referring to Sherlock as his friend a few weeks later had given rise to the same glow, so bright that it had overwhelmed him for a second of mute and dizzying elation.

Yet terror had crept up on him also, because, try as he might, there were those pesky, infuriating instances when he did get something wrong, and just because he hadn’t pushed John too far yet didn’t mean that he might not in the future, leaving him a friend short after allowing himself to rejoice over having one at all. 

But what about now on this sofa? The previous circumstances didn’t apply. His apprehension in this instance wasn’t because John might leave him. John’s all too comfortable position bellied that. And what about the other three emotions? Was Sherlock happy that his friend trusted him enough to lean against him in sleep? But John wasn’t even aware of it. He’d merely fallen asleep and gravity had done the rest, so whatever he felt toward Sherlock was irrelevant. 

Except not completely irrelevant, because he had agreed to remain with Sherlock despite his own exhaustion, so it still mattered to some extent even if only indirectly. Which he had done because Sherlock was his friend. And Sherlock was enjoying John’s touch because he was his friend. Englishmen didn’t habitually engage in such close contact with their friends according to society’s asinine rules of engagement and the narrow-minded perception of masculinity unless alcohol was involved, but Sherlock had never cared a damn about that beyond what he could deduce about others from knowing about such rules. Yet John, ever so heterosexual John, who always kept strictly within proper boundaries of personal space and protested that he wasn’t gay far too often for comfort, wasn’t the type to break this rule. Although it had been an accident, so while he would feel embarrassed if he awoke to find himself in this position and therefore apologize, he wasn’t likely to fly into a panic. So there was no need for Sherlock to fear any sort of consequence from this. 

However, John might wonder why Sherlock didn’t wake him instead of choosing to just sit here, hands planted uselessly on his laptop keyboard, not moving so much as a centimeter in case the jostling woke up John because Sherlock didn’t want to do that, despite the fact that his notes were still not finished and it would nag at him until they were. Yet John touching him was far more important. 

Because John was his friend. Yes, he had established that eons ago. God, he was going in bloody circles, but he had to make sense of this or he wouldn’t be able to get a moment’s peace!

John was his friend. They had never touched like this before, but Sherlock liked that they were because it was nice and it made him happy. The contact soothed him, doubtlessly sending endorphins rushing through his system, but that was merely the chemical reaction to a situation that Sherlock enjoyed. If Sherlock were averse to it, his discomfort would be swift and vicious and he would be locked in his bedroom right now. And yet, he wasn’t. He was here. And John was here. But if Sherlock moved, John would go away, shuffle off and up the stairs, ridiculously embarrassed by his most unseemly behavior. His apologies over soaking Sherlock’s shirt alone would set Sherlock’s teeth on edge and John’s discomfort would ensure that this never happened again, and God did Sherlock want it to happen again. John asleep like this, touching him like this, breathing on him just like this, his elbow resting on Sherlock’s lap as his hair brushed Sherlock’s cheek as he moved just the slightest bit, just enough to feel its softness gently brush his skin and make his eyes drift shut as he sucked in the scent of shampoo and woolen jumper and that unique, ineffable quality that was all John. 

God, it was glorious and agonizing and Sherlock didn’t want it to stop. 

As slowly and carefully as possible, he slid the computer off his lap and onto the cushion beside him, making sure not to jostle John, then leaned back just as cautiously. John’s eyelids fluttered and he uttered a light sound deep in his throat, but he didn’t wake. Sherlock looked down at John’s arm on his lap, the length of which pressed against Sherlock’s own in such delicious contact. His left hand rose, seeking to touch John’s arm, but without John’s conscious consent it felt wrong. John himself had fallen atop Sherlock so the contact they were engaging in right now should be alright, but going beyond that belonged to some grey area that Sherlock didn’t know how to quantify. Although perhaps remaining like this was not acceptable after all, and the proper thing to do was to wake up John. Sherlock urgently wanted to not do that. 

So he didn’t. He remained on the sofa, perfectly still, his eyes slipping shut to better enjoy this moment. The warmth of John’s breath continued to make Sherlock’s own shorten and his heart quicken as the same four emotions cascaded through his mind in a never-ending loop of madness and despair. Some friends cuddled. They enjoyed it, as Sherlock clearly did, so this wasn’t anything to fret over, certainly not a necessary indication of those particular feelings that he had always been glad not to be bothered by as they made everything so unbearably complicated and irritating. People constantly lost their heads over it and yet found nothing wrong with that, instead claiming it as an advantage, even as many habitually ruined their lives over it. The number of murders that he had come across that had only transpired because some simpleton had fancied themselves madly in love could fill this entire room. But that wasn’t happening to him. It couldn’t happen to him. This wasn’t that sort of love. It was just… 

It was…

Friends loved each other, even though most didn’t announce it in flowery declarations. John was Sherlock’s friend. And Sherlock loved him.

Oh.

Of course. He should have realized earlier. He hadn’t even considered dwelling on it earlier. What for? They lived together. Solved cases together. Ate together, or, more likely than not, John ate while he mothered Sherlock into doing the same with the encouragement of Mrs. Hudson. There was no need to waste time analyzing their relationship. It simply was. It worked. End of story. But now… Now that lack of analytical effort was costing him, for he had not been prepared for this eventuality or his reaction to it. He loved John, therefore his touch gave Sherlock pleasure. Well, not _that_ sort of touch, but John wouldn’t be interested in any case, being so straight and all, thank God. But this kind, leaning on each other, snuggling on the sofa… Oh, that would be marvelous. Far outside the range of what John would be willing to engage in, but Sherlock could always dream, and now that the realization had bowled him over it was all that he could think of. John tucking himself beside Sherlock as they shared a blanket. Holding hands. Massaging each others’ feet. Casually touching each other whenever just because they felt like it. Spooning. Sniffing each other’s hair fresh from the shower. 

Hmm. Some of these went beyond anything that John would consider to be strictly friendly. All of them, actually. Which meant that they would never happen, and that made Sherlock so morose that he yearned to grab his revolver and shoot the wall, but then John would be cross and there would be no touching of any sort for a dreadfully long while, and he could not have that. He would just have to sit here and stew over impossibility while John slept atop him.

Actually, this was exactly what he wanted, so what was he complaining about? Never mind. If he could just get his mind to shut off for one, wretched second, for once, so he could just delight in this rare moment and not turn himself inside out over it. But he didn’t know how to do that. He never had. How did people just switch off like hapless puppets lying at the bottom of the stage with no one tugging at their strings—

John shifted, burrowing his nose into Sherlock’s neck with a soft sigh. Sherlock held his breath, not daring to do so much as blink. 

Oh. 

Not so much thinking now. John’s eyelashes brushed his skin, his breath burning hot now that it was so close, his hair softly caressing his jaw. His arm slid atop Sherlock’s, hand stopping on the outside of his thigh, fingers relaxed in sleep. Distracting. Yes, most distracting. What good were all of Sherlock’s doubts and worries, anyhow? Just listen to John’s breath. That’s all he had to do. Simply listen to the soft cadence of his lungs and heartbeat pressed so intimately against him. 

A police siren wailed outside, barreling down a nearby intersection, and John jerked up, unmercifully awake. Sherlock cursed death and destruction upon the entire Met as John scrunched his face, eyes narrowed tiredly at Sherlock as he blinked himself to full wakefulness and sat up, removing his body from Sherlock’s, which had to count as the most catastrophic event that had occurred this entire year.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, “I must have fallen asleep. Was I out for long?”

“No,” Sherlock said, grabbing his laptop and shutting it with a firm slam, his jaw clenched so hard that his teeth ached. “Not long,” he added, moderating his voice to contain his immense and overpowering frustration, else John think that Sherlock was angry at him and not the car shrieking up a storm outside. 

John was frowning at the wet spot on Sherlock’s shoulder. Oh, bollocks.

“Is that… Did I… drool on you?” 

“Um, yes, a bit.”

John dropped his head into his hands, groaning.

“Oh God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind.”

Sherlock stood up, as desperate to flee the premises as he had been to remain only a damn minute ago, and moved his laptop over to the table to give himself an excuse to retreat.

“Next time,” John said, standing up as well, cheeks burning red. “Just shove me off. Although I’ll try for there not to be a next time.”

Sherlock’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. No next time. Of course there wouldn’t be a next time. How could John’s proper English heterosexuality stand it? 

“Hang on,” John said. “It’s twelve past ten now. The last time I looked at the clock it was 9:16, and I was looking at it quite a bit, desperate for you to finish so I could go to bed. So I must have been asleep for close to an hour. Why did you say I hadn’t been out long?”

Sherlock pretended to fiddle with some newspaper clippings on the table, firmly facing away from John and his befuddled voice. 

“I was being polite,” he said. 

“You’re not polite.”

“I can be. You’ve seen it.”

“Not at home, and not with me.”

John was stepping toward him, no doubt seeking to see Sherlock’s face to gauge his expression. Time to leave. Yawning widely, Sherlock sharply turned on his heel and scurried towards his bedroom.

“I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. Really, stop fretting about the drool. I’ve had much worse.”

He rushed into his room before John could speak another word and shut the door. His breath froze in his throat as he stood still, staring at the door, listening intently for John’s footsteps and where he would go. The living room floorboards creaked lightly as John moved, so muffled that they were almost inaudible, a confused shuffling of feet, then he began to amble to the right, feet dragging off to the staircase and up to the second floor, every step heavy and tired and hopefully not thinking much at all, especially not about what had just occurred. The instant that his door shut above, Sherlock took off in a mad pacing around his room, avoiding the creaky floorboard at the edge of his closet, yanking at fistfuls of hair before his hands began jerking as he strove to get his emotions under control, to center himself, to get his spiraling mind to shut up. 

_Shut up! Stop pummeling me with dread. I can’t bear it._

There was absolutely not a damn thing to be worried about. John would chalk this up to one of Sherlock’s moods or eccentricities, and not dig up any deeper meaning into why Sherlock decided to be gracious this one time. It was fine. Everything was absolutely fine, and there was no need for Sherlock to waste one more second fretting over it, yet he could not get his body to stop pacing or his throat to clamp down on the scream building in his throat until a moan of rage escaped and he pressed his hands over his mouth, throwing himself in bed only to fold up his legs up to his chest and hug them, rocking back and forth while squeezing his eyes shut and burying his head in his lap, keening, yet not loud enough to be heard upstairs, thank God, but it was too much. Too much, too much, too much…

Would John move out if he found out that Sherlock wanted to hold his hand as if they were boyfriends, something that John would most certainly not be up for? Yet Sherlock wasn’t sexually or romantically attracted to him, which should make the distasteful realization easier to bear. 

Sherlock wasn’t romantically attracted, was he? Just what the devil was romantic attraction, anyway? He had made some study of it in aid of his work and to seek to calm this source of infuriating confusion, yet had only succeeded in learning to detect it in those around him, particularly when a sexual element was involved, yet not getting any deeper than this frustrating superficiality, for the theory of it made no sense, especially when no one seemed bloody capable of defining it. Queerplatonic attraction still seemed more likely, for Sherlock was attracted to John. That much, that dim sliver of clarity, did seem apparent in this thorny muddle. 

Would it be preferable if he were romantically attracted to John, or would it only make things worse? At least romantic attraction was a concept that John could understand, but friends announcing romantic feelings toward you tended to disrupt relationships when said feelings weren’t returned, while the term “platonic” had such a nice, comforting feeling to it, and was one that John insisted on regularly to describe their relationship to those who assumed that they were a couple. So John should be more comfortable with that concept, surely, although this wasn’t the sort of platonic that he had in mind. Just as well, as Sherlock was 99% sure that that’s what was happening here and not anything romantic, so that should be a comfort to John when he inevitably noticed the obvious, because he was obnoxiously observant precisely when Sherlock didn’t want him to be. 

Sherlock shot out of bed, long strides taking him halfway to the door before he realized that he couldn’t rush out to the living room in search of his violin as his fingers so itched to do, twitching at his sides like desperate eels, for John would hear, and his suspicions would become even more aroused. 

Hadn’t Sherlock claimed to be too sleepy to stay awake? Clearly a cheap excuse if he began playing the violin now. 

Damn it all to hell! He couldn’t go for a walk because John might hear the door. He couldn’t grab his nicotine patches because they were in his skull and John might hear the creak of the floorboards right in front of the fireplace. His damn laptop was held hostage all the way in the kitchen. There was absolutely nothing for him to do except sit here and stew and groan into his hands because he of all damn people hadn’t been smart enough to wake up John before he was up to his neck in water and the sand beneath his feet gave way, limbs imprisoned in seaweed dragging him under to drown.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock should have taken the chance to flee the flat in the morning before John came downstairs. But avoiding him was not as simple as it had once been ever since Sherlock had been briefly kidnapped by that drug ring two months ago, sending John into a panic. Said distress had been crucial to extract Sherlock from the rather embarrassing situation but had afterward been a source of frustration as John no longer tolerated Sherlock ignoring his texts for hours at a time. After the third time that John had threatened to send Lestrade after him, Sherlock had gritted his teeth and acquiesced to not let more than an hour pass by without replying to a text, even if all he sent was some random letter to let John know that he wasn’t in mortal danger. John wasn’t happy about the non-replies, either, but at least he calmed down “knowing that I don’t have to rescue your reckless arse after you did something stupid again”. The fact that Sherlock had rescued John an equivalent amount of times didn’t seem to matter much to John when he was in mother hen mode. 

Besides, a sudden disappearance after Sherlock’s display last night would only put Sherlock in a worse position, as well as delay the inevitable, although the later sounded so tempting as John’s steps descended down the staircase. Sherlock pretended to be fascinated by something on his laptop as he sat in his chair sipping his tea, legs crossed in a relaxed pose as if everything were perfectly fine in the world. John was smoothing his hair flat with his hand as he reached the bottom of the staircase, slightly slouching pose and slack face indicating that he hadn’t managed enough sleep to recover from their activities, but he looked better than last night. He still wore his striped blue pajamas with a dressing gown wrapped on top, which made him look ridiculously soft and cuddly, sending Sherlock’s thoughts careening in a direction that he most certainly did not need to be indulging right now, the despair they brought too agonizing to bear. 

“Is there tea left in the pot?” John asked. 

“Yes.”

It was only sometimes that Sherlock forgot to make tea for more than just himself. Alright, most of the time. But Mrs. Hudson usually made up for the deficit, and John was perfectly capable of making some himself, so it was hardly a tragedy. Sherlock idly typed at the laptop while actually keeping his full concentration on John’s movements in the kitchen, back muscles tensing as if John were going to ambush him at any moment, which was either preposterous or perfectly justified, depending on which argument in his mind was winning at that particular moment. 

After a few minutes, the soft shuffling of John’s slippers and the crinkling of a newspaper announced his return to the living room, and soon he was sitting across from Sherlock, who didn’t raise his eyes from his laptop no matter how hard he hungered to. Taking a sip from his tea, John set it down on his side table and opened the paper, yesterday’s copy of The Guardian, which he hadn’t had a chance to look at before. 

Silence ensued, disturbed only by the rustling of the paper, the clacking of Sherlock’s laptop keys, and the tapping of tea mugs on hard wood. As the minutes ticked on, the apprehension in Sherlock’s muscles began to ease and he managed to focus on his screen in earnest. 

“I’m wondering something,” John said, voice gentle inquisitive and idle.

“Hm?”

“About last night.”

Shit. 

“I don’t mind the drool, John.”

“It’s not about the drool.” John put down the paper, turning to Sherlock, who refused to look up from his laptop for more than a second. “Alright, it is a bit. No one likes being drooled on, yet you didn’t shove me off, despite the fact that you never let me do anything that you don’t like, so that’s more than a little odd. What’s also odd is how you told me that it was fine in that shy little way you do when you actually do like something.”

“I never act shy,” Sherlock said, injecting the right amount of dismissiveness in his tone, but John wasn’t having it.

“Yeah, you do. Like when I complimented you that first night with the lady in pink and offered to stop. You told me not to, that it was fine, just the same way that you did last night.”

“That makes no sense. How could I possibly enjoy you covering me in saliva?”

“You wouldn’t, which is why I’m asking what that was about. Did you… Did you like that I was sleeping on you?”

John looked down at the paper, smoothing it out with his hands on his lap, his own voice suddenly quiet and uncertain. Hoping for a negative answer, perhaps, despite it being the least likely possibility according to the facts, because Sherlock truly had shot himself in the foot, hadn’t he, acting so bloody suspicious by fleeing like that? John might be laughably ignorant of ninety percent of the details around him, but not even he could have missed such obvious clues. And of the two of them, John did have actual experience with the concept of crushes. Not that this was a crush. Wrong term. But its outward expression could have significant similarities with squishes, as was clearly the case now because this agonizingly inconvenient state was precisely what John was implying. His looking away and the uncertain frown wrinkling his brow indicated his discomfort with even having to ask the question, yet it was not so immense that he avoided inquiring at all and merely moving on as if nothing happened. Or maybe it was that immense and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to quit dwelling on it, so best clear the air now before it festered between them. 

If Sherlock denied the allegation, John could either believe him or not. If he did believe him, he would still be perturbed by why exactly Sherlock had acted so odd last night, which was why it was unlikely that he would believe him. John wouldn’t let this go without a satisfying, plausible answer, and the fact that he’d arrived at this conclusion indicated that he considered it to be the most likely one. Which of course it was. It was one hundred percent true. Sherlock had backed himself into a trap with no means of escape that wouldn’t result in John being cross with him and probably even more convinced that his theory was correct, anyway. 

Sherlock was out of options. Both an affirmation and a denial would result in the same general outcome, but which one would cost less damage? The truth seemed to be the right answer, as John greatly valued honesty and resented Sherlock’s little fibs, but would their friendship survive it? 

Sherlock’s fingers floundered on the keyboard, touching yet not pressing any of them, his posture now far from relaxed, and his nervous silence and disinclination to look up to John too obvious to be denied. John dropped back in his seat, mouth falling open in a silent “oh”. The effort it took for Sherlock to keep his breath steady could have cracked glass. 

“You did, didn’t you?” John said, and Sherlock would have gladly made a study of the wonderment and confusion in his voice if it hadn’t been directed at him. “Sherlock, are you…” John swallowed. “I know you said that you’re married to your work and I might have this completely wrong, but you… You’re acting… weird. Weirder. I mean—”

“If you’re going to ask me if I’m attracted to you, please just do it instead of carrying on like this. It’s exhausting.”

The words rushed out in a hurried plea as Sherlock slammed the laptop closed, dropping it on the floor beside him before grabbing his mug, only to put it back down because he might spit out any drop he poured into his mouth right now. The crinkling of the newspaper grated at his nerves as John stalled for even longer before finally doing him the mercy (or unkindness, he wasn’t sure which) of looking him in the eye, and Sherlock suddenly couldn’t breathe. 

“Are you?” John asked. “Attracted to me?”

John’s voice was barely holding steady, the cocktail of confusion and pleading driving him to despair, because he couldn’t tell, not from John’s frown or the particular tension of his jaw or the way that he held his hands flat on the newspaper, could not for the life of him deduce what answer John wished him to give, and how did that make sense? John should be hoping for a “no”, shouldn’t he, wishing for it so clearly that all Sherlock needed to do was glance at him to see it.

“I am.”

The amount of energy it took to force those words out left Sherlock limp and dizzy in his chair, but he refused to show it. He would not be the pathetic suitor pleading for scraps. 

“But not in the way you’re thinking,” Sherlock added quickly, even as John sank a little back in his chair, lips parting slightly in a silent gasp as shock rocked his features. He frowned again at Sherlock’s addition, lips struggling silently around his response.

“What do you mean? Are you attracted to me or aren’t you?”

“Yes, but not sexually or romantically.”

John’s frown intensified. 

“You’re not—Hang on. I’ve heard of this. You’re saying you’re asexual?”

So Sherlock didn’t have to explain everything from top to bottom. Thank God for small mercies. 

“Yes. I’m also aromantic.”

“Oh. That makes a lot of sense, actually. But… hang on. How exactly are you attracted to me then, if you’re not… If it’s not like that?”

Of course, John would need to be educated in something. Sherlock’s ability to remain calm and not shake his hands and pace around the room was trying his sanity, and he still couldn’t tell if John was displeased or not, and how was that possible?

“I’m platonically attracted to you. Yes, it’s a thing. It’s called platonic attraction, and it goes far beyond my considering you a friend. At least, that’s what I understand. As I have never experienced this before, it is a bit difficult for me to gauge the relative intensity, but I believe that I have effectively determined that it is not romantic attraction and I had no desire for this sort of physical contact with you a couple of months ago.”

“A couple of months? So for how long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice hissed as his frustration at his inability to know his own mind leaked through. “I only became aware of it last night, at least on a conscious level. Like I said, I have no experience in this sort of thing.”

“Okay. Huh.”

What was that expression on John’s face? Wonderment? Pleasure? 

Pleasure?! Or was that amusement? That difference was crucial. What did it mean?

“So I’m the first person who you’ve ever been attracted to?” John asked, his tone lighter, yet still no closer to comprehensibility. How could John possibly be stimming Sherlock like this? He was always so predictable, conveniently so, yet now he seemed determined to flummox him. 

“That is what I just said. If you’re going to let me down gently, I’d rather you just got it over with so that we can move on.”

“Move on? Is that what you want us to do?”

“For fuck’s sake, John. I want to know what you’re thinking. I can always tell, but you’ve suddenly become annoyingly inscrutable, and I don’t know if we’re going to keep on drinking our tea or if you’re going to get up and start packing. Just tell me already, please.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, raising his hands in surrender, his apology genuine, at least. “I’m just surprised, and a little confused. Alright, more than a little confused. I’m not sure how to react. But I’m not moving out. Have you been worried this whole time that I might move out?”

Sherlock released the pent-up sigh that had been festering in his chest. 

“Unrequited affection does tend to have a detrimental effect on shared living space, so yes, I have.”

“Oh. Well, I haven’t heard anything so far that has led me to think that I should, although I’m still not sure what it is that we’re talking about or what you want. I’m sorry, but I don’t really know much on the subject.”

Sherlock grabbed his laptop and opened it, pulling up the bookmarks that he’d set earlier this morning

“Don’t trouble yourself over it. Most people don’t.” As irritating as that was. “Here.” 

He thrust the laptop at John, which had the internet browser pulled up to a page describing the difference between queerplatonic and romantic relationships. It was sure to perplex John as much as it had Sherlock himself, only from the opposite side of the lens, as the external characteristics of the two types were basically identical. The other two tabs were open to posts with the best descriptions of aromanticism and asexuality that he could relate to.

“I don’t expect you to indulge me in this,” Sherlock said, standing up because he couldn’t sit still for a moment longer, especially not as John read that. “I know how very close to dating it will sound to you.”

“According to the Yard, we’re already dating,” John mumbled under his breath. 

Sherlock jerked midstride, swallowing a muffled scream. 

“Sorry,” John said quickly, looking up at Sherlock, who could not turn to face him right now. “I don’t mean to make light. I’ll just shut up and read.”

“Please do.”

The wait for John to finish was an agonizing torrent of pacing, flapping hands, and endless glancing at John to read his expressions, which somehow managed to be both reassuring and alarming at the same time. The foundation of confusion remained, but was now mixed with studious curiosity, yet also a perturbing uncertainty that needled at Sherlock’s nerves like stabbing knives. 

He jumped in an infuriatingly, uncharacteristic fashion when John announced, “I’m done.” Sherlock turned on his heel and rushed to his chair, dropping into it, arms on his knees as he leaned forward, peering at John, who was still filled with so much damn uncertainty. 

“And?” Sherlock asked when John hesitated too long in elaborating.

John sucked in a long, deep breath.

“And I need time to process all this. But don’t worry, alright? I’m not moving out.”

Sherlock breathed slowly through his nose, allowing his body to relax a fraction as he confirmed John’s sincerity in the earnestness of his eyes.

“Actually,” John continued, “a lot of this already applies to us, in a way. We live together, and not in a way I ever have with any other flatmate. I certainly wouldn’t put up with heads in the fridge for anyone else. We spend most of our free time together, as well as work together on your cases, so most of our time in total. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I’m closer to you than to anyone else. And I know the feeling is mutual. And uh…” John frowned at the laptop screen again. “That is the main thing, isn’t it? Although I can’t really say that that I’m attracted to you. I do think about you a lot and many of the things listed here, but attraction isn’t the word I would use.”

“That’s alright. I don’t expect you to be.” Sherlock picked at a loose thread on the chair, yanking at it with his nails. “Nothing between us has to change. Nothing. I am making no demands of you. I would rather not have brought it up at all, but I did make myself rather obvious last night.”

“Oh, I think that it would have come up eventually. You’re not exactly good at keeping calm when something’s bothering you. You would have stewed and it would have festered, and it would only have been worse later on. No, I am glad that we’re airing it out now. Even though I’m not telling you what you want to hear.”

Guilt peeked at John’s eyes, calming and souring the tension in Sherlock’s stomach.

“I disagree,” Sherlock said. “I’m not moving out” is exactly what I want to hear from you. Like I said, I’m not asking anything of you.”

“But you would like for us to have a relationship like it, with its proper acknowledgment? That is what you implied earlier.”

Sherlock sank back in the chair, resisting the urge to jiggle his right foot as he crossed his legs. 

“If you were to be amenable, which you’re not---”

“Obligated to be. Yes, I do get it, Sherlock. And it’s fine. I mean, I’m still not quite sure how I feel about it, but I’m not freaking out the way that I expected to be earlier. Although, if you were attracted to me the way that I’m familiar with, I might be a bit. But…” 

John rubbed his forehead, unsure of what to say next, and Sherlock leaned forward, peering closely again, his heart thundering as he recognized the trepidation in John’s face, the panicked doubt of a person who secretly wished to lean in before bolting instead because the prospect was too life-changing and terrifying.

“John? Do you wish me to leave you alone to think?”

Instant relief washed over John’s face. 

“Yes, that would be great, thank you.”

Sherlock forced a wan smile.

“Of course.”

He stood up, rushing to the coat rack by the door and pulling on his coat and scarf, eager to leave so that John could process all his fears and they could move on as soon as possible, in whatever shape that might take, for good or ill.

“Sherlock,” John said, stepping towards him.

“Yes?”

Sherlock only looked up when John’s face came into view and he touched Sherlock’s upper, left arm, squeezing lightly. John waited until Sherlock met his eyes before speaking, eyes stern like they were whenever John wished to make a point.

“I’m not moving out. Alright?”

Sherlock’s breath froze in his throat before he sucked in a shaky exhale to reply. 

“You might change your mind about that.”

“I won’t. Not about this So please stop worrying about it, okay?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment before nodding, a hint of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it.”

He slipped out the door, breath gusting in his throat like he’d run a mile.


	3. Chapter 3

A few minutes later, Sherlock furiously struggled to still his nerves by marching through Hyde Park instead of smoking the cigarettes secreted in his jacket pocket. He’d scurried past the Tesco four times before finally caving and going in to buy some nicotine patches only to ask for the cigarettes instead, which he couldn’t actually smoke because smoking in this city was impossible these days and John would smell the telltale scent on his clothes the instant that he saw him again, and he would be cross, because Sherlock had just agreed to go cold turkey last week, a most idiotic decision by current standards, so now he was marching aimlessly with his nerves on fire and not even the comfort of nicotine to help pass the time.

A groan escaped his lips as his phone chimed with a text, only to gasp when he saw John’s name on the screen. 

_Given last night, is cuddling something you’d like to do?_

_Only if you want to_ , Sherlock replied, breath clenched in his throat.

A couple of minutes later, another text came in. 

_What level of commitment are you hoping for here? I searched some more and got some mixed responses. We’re already each other’s primary relationship, so I’m guessing that’s what you’re hoping for._

Sherlock hesitated before replying, his mouth running dry. 

_Yes._

Several nerve-wracking seconds elapsed before John replied.

_Ok._

Ok. No protest, at least not yet,, not until John had sorted out how to refuse him as gently as possible, which was the overwhelmingly probable outcome. As the endless parade of girlfriends, as well as several off-hand comments, made quite clear, John wanted marriage and possibly children. He wasn’t sure if he should make the attempt as he feared being a rubbish father, but the fact that this was his main motivation for discarding the notion indicated that he truly did want them. Sherlock, for his own part, certainly did not. John would likely be the first to say that no one should ever allow him to be any sort infant caretaker, nor would Sherlock volunteer for such an occupation. The fact that he wouldn’t know how to keep a child alive when he couldn’t be bothered to eat or sleep regularly himself was immaterial given that he didn’t wish to be a parent in the first place. The urge to breed was one of many impulses that he observed in those around him yet struggled to comprehend beyond a theoretical level, although he could at least understand its appeal for those of a more nurturing disposition, which Sherlock was not. 

As it stood, Sherlock’s desire to not reproduce and his lack of romantic and sexual interest, even if he weren’t the wrong gender for John, made him a most unsuitable primary partner for him in the long run, so Sherlock should recall his plea now before John had to suffer another moment of guilt over Sherlock’s foolhardiness. He pulled up John’s contact info on his phone (John always took calls more seriously than texts), and was about to ring when a new message appeared on the screen. 

_I get now why that episode of Brooklyn 99 bothered you so much._

Sherlock froze. He lowered the phone and walked briskly down the path, his jaw so tight that his teeth ground together. The episode in question had ruined a perfectly pleasant evening. The ridiculous antics of the American police sitcom were usually harmless, if implausible, but when one of two best friends had told the other at a stag party that he hoped that nothing would change between them, and the other replied that of course it would, didn’t the other make him less of a priority when he got married, Sherlock had shot out of his seat and strode into the kitchen under the pretense of needing a cup of tea.

John had possessed the perspicacity to see part of the obvious, at least, and had reassured him that their friendship wouldn’t be affected if he ever got married, never mind that said wife would demand him to leave Baker street and live alone with her, and for most of his free time to be dedicated to her, as well as a stable paycheck, not running around on cases with the mad Sherlock Holmes when half of them didn’t even pay them anything. There was no possible way for any permanent romantic entanglement of John’s to not alter their friendship and they both knew it. But the last thing he wanted was to get into a row if John refused to see this, so he had just said amiably, “Alright, John” and refused to say another word until the wretched episode was over. 

His phone chimed again. He growled, coming to a full stop, someone behind him having to swerve not to bump into him, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. He raised the phone, reading the new message.

_I did some more internet searching. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much this upset you._

Sherlock sighed a long breath that wracked his entire torso. He began to type. 

_You didn’t know and I didn’t say. We have conflicting needs and wants. I changed my mind. I don’t think we should change anything afte—_

A new message came in before Sherlock could finish.

_Can you come home? I’m ready to talk face to face now._

Well. The moment had come. Although it was still much too early for John to have a arrived at a decision, but just as well. Sherlock could relieve him of the burden before he troubled himself further. 

_I’ll be there in ten minutes._

```````````````````````

Sherlock found John standing beside the chair at the table, clearly having just gotten up when he heard Sherlock’s feet on the staircase. The laptop sat open, likely displaying more posts for John to educate himself with. Sherlock could only hope that they were authentic ones and not some of the dreck put out there by misinformed outsiders. John’s face showed less confusion and more resolution now, although it was still unclear in which direction he intended to decide.

“Sherl—”

“Before you say anything,” Sherlock interrupted, rushing the words out, “I know this isn’t what you ever envisioned while living with me. And I’m aware that you want to get married someday, and this would only be an impediment to that. I don’t want that. I don’t want to interfere in your future happiness by starting something that you would only feel bad about leaving later. What I want most in the world is for you to be happy, with whoever that is. We can continue our friendship the way you’re accustomed to. I will be alright, I promise you. Please don’t agree to anything just for my sake.”

John stared at him for a long moment, unblinking, mouth slightly open, as he rubbed absently at the table with his left hand.

“Well, that’s the thing, Sherlock,” he said, flashing a desperate, little smile. “Your happiness is the most important thing to me, too. And I wouldn’t put much stock in the possibility of me getting married. I keep getting dumped because I always prioritize you over them, and I have no intention of not doing that for someone I’ve only known for a few weeks.”

“You might meet someone who you’ll wish to do that for, though.”

John huffed lightly.

“Yeah, well. I don’t see much point dwelling in future possibilities when I’m almost getting shot up or drowned or kidnapped every other week. Focus on the here and now. That’s what I’ve learned. And you’re my here and now. You, this flat, Mrs. Hudson bringing us tea and admonishing us for not eating enough as if she were our mum.”

 _Oh, please. She’s much better than mummy_ , Sherlock thought, but he wasn’t about to open his mouth and derail John’s train of thought just for that, not when his peace of mind depended on what John had to say. 

“I read the posts you gave me again, and honestly, that’s what our relationship is already, just without the name, so…” John rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m still not sure I have a full grasp on everything and I need to discuss with you what exactly you mean by it because the definition is a bit flexible, which is nice, but that’s why I called you back here.”

“John.” 

Sherlock barely allowed himself to breathe as he furiously processed the words that John had just spoken, analyzing them for every possible permutation of meaning. 

“What exactly are you saying?” Sherlock continued. “Do you want to do this? Or are you just saying that you need more data to make a decision?”

“Well, both, I think.” John smiled, and Sherlock had no problem interpreting that except for the flabbergasted “it’s too good to be true” skepticism spiraling in his head.

“We need to set down some ground rules,” John continued. “And define exactly what we mean by cuddling, because some things I don’t think I… Although last night was nice. Or would have been, if I hadn’t been so horribly embarrassed. And the drool was bad, but… Sherlock? Are you okay? You look a little frozen. Sherlock?”

It was John’s hand on his arm that snapped Sherlock out of the shocked reverie that his body had clasped itself into. He turned to look at it, the sight and pressure of it so welcome and essential. How had he never noticed how much he yearned for this before? But he must not be greedy, not with John. 

“You’re sure?” he asked, hating how shaky he sounded. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“We still have things to talk about, but yes. Like I said, we really are in one of these already, to be honest.”

“But we haven’t had this sort of commitment before.”

“I was already pretty well committed to you.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know. But I think I already was, just not with this vocabulary. I’d never set you aside, not even if I met the most perfect woman in the world.”

“She might disagree.”

“Well, then she wouldn’t be perfect, would she?”

A desperate laugh escaped Sherlock’s lips.

“Hardly, no.”

John gave Sherlock’s arm one last squeeze before letting go as he smiled back.

“So we’re in agreement, then?”

Sherlock said, grinning like a loon.

“Yes, John, I believe we are.”

```````````````````````

“So.” John commenced the discussion when they were both sitting at their respective chairs, Sherlock barely containing the urge to slide a foot across the floor to lean against John’s. “Um, I guess an important question is do we tell people?”

The glorious satisfaction of informing people that, “This is my partner, John Watson” was immensely appealing, yet Sherlock shrugged casually to disguise his enthusiasm for it in case that John was leaning against that prospect.

“You’re the one who is constantly objecting to us being viewed as a couple. You choose.”

“Well, we’re not… Hang on. Does that word apply in this context? I can’t recall if I read that anywhere.”

He glanced at his laptop, which remained on the table, as if it would provide him with the answers despite being too far away to read the screen.

“It’s a bit romantically coded,” Sherlock said, “but it doesn’t matter to me how people interpret us as long as they’re not obnoxious about it.”

“Well, they are quite a bit.”

Irritation souring John’s voice. Sherlock frowned, uncertainty creeping up on him.

“If this is going to bother you, then perhaps we should keep it to ourselves. No matter what we say, people will spin it according to their own ignorance into what it’s not, like they’ve always done. I don’t care what people think, but you do, although I wish you didn’t.”

“It’s hard not to.” John dropped back in his chair, rubbing his mouth for a second. “You’re right. It shouldn’t. And people assume, anyway, so being open about it can only help, right?”

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“What people think?”

“That they think we’re gay. Or we could be bi or pan, but people have been trained that the default option is gay, so they automatically assume that first, although it’s less likely in your case given how you flirt with every pretty woman in front of you.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” John shifted in his chair, looking suddenly concerned. “We sort of addressed it earlier, but I want to be clear. I would like… I do want to keep dating women.” 

“I don’t have a problem with that.” 

That wasn’t exactly true. It never had been, and there would most certainly be a problem if John stuck with one woman for long enough, but if this was going to be the sticking point that determined whether John was comfortable being in a partnership with Sherlock or not, then best not dwell on it.

“Good,” John said, the relief in his voice proving Sherlock’s fear. “That’s one thing sorted.”

“So we can get back to the previous one. Don’t think I didn’t notice how swiftly you changed the subject.”

John at least had the decency to look chagrined by his sloppy attempt at distraction.

“Well, I uh…” John rubbed his hands together, an uneasy wrinkle returning to his brow, and Sherlock could feel the panic at him having to consider the elephant in the room that he’d never been forced to acknowledge before, no matter how many times he crashed into it. “Because it’s not true. And no woman’s going to date me if they think I’m gay, and already romantically entangled to boot.”

“You realize that our new arrangement won’t help matters in that area.”

“I know, but…” John raised a finger. “I already committed and I’m not going to backtrack five minutes in. I want to make this work, so I’ll just have to make my dating life work, too. And this is platonic, not romantic, so we really should emphasize that point.”

“It’s in the name. I’d say it’s pretty well emphasized.” Sherlock didn’t press the issue of John’s apparent gay panic, a tad afraid that it might make him reconsider, despite what he’d just affirmed. “So then. We tell people. I must admit, I’m glad of it. I want to show you off.”

Sherlock flashed what John had once called his “wolf’s grin”, a term that Sherlock relished with utmost satisfaction. John appreciated the smile most heartedly, as he grinned himself. 

“I like to think that I show you off.”

Sherlock’s grin grew wider. 

“What other questions did you have?” he asked. 

“Oh. Um, you said you wanted to cuddle.”

Uncertaintly returned to John’s face, yet wasn’t that a bit of excitement, too? Yes, but a cautious one.

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “You did say that last night was nice, minus the drooling.”

John nodded, sucking in his lower lip. He rubbed hir right knee, smiling shyly in the most endearing yet nervewracking way. 

“I don’t know exactly what you have in mind, that’s why I’m asking. And I don’t know about everything, but… I haven’t cuddled with someone who wasn’t a romantic partner before.”

“They haven’t all been romantic.”

“Well, no. Right. Sorry. I’m still getting used to all the different terms. I had heard that they are different things, but I hadn’t actually thought about it too much. And there are two more, right, if I’m not mistaken.”

John stood up and went to the table, where he grabbed a notebook and flipped it open.

“You took notes?” Sherlock asked. 

“Of course I did. I always take notes. Haven’t you noticed I’m practically your secretary?”

“Personal assistant, please.”

John snorted, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“What?” he asked, smiling with bemusement as Sherlock gazed at him in wonderment. 

“You amaze me, John Watson.”

“Well, that’s a refreshing change of pace.”

Sherlock frowned. 

“No, it isn’t. You do so all the time, I’m just remiss in telling you.”

“Well, make a point of doing so next time. I like hearing it. How exactly have I amazed you this time?”

“You’ve taken to all this so much better than I ever hoped for. I thought for sure that I was in for days of stilted awkwardness after you gave me some variation of the it’s not you, it’s me talk.”

John gazed down at the notebook, but without reading it, turning it over in his fingers with an air of embarrassed self-reproach.

“I may have considered that for a bit,” he confessed after a while in a low voice. 

Sherlock swallowed, mouth dry.

“What changed your mind?”

“What I said.” John glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to join me in the sofa?”

Sherlock sprang up and crossed the room in a flash, sitting down expectantly. 

“By all means,” he said. 

Shaking his head with a light chuckle, John joined in, notebook still in hand. He sat closer than he ever had before save for when they’d had to squeeze in because they had company, yet there was still an annoying two inches between their arms. John soon rectified that by leaning oh so slightly to his left until his head was lying on Sherlock’s shoulder just like last night. Sherlock sucked in a breath as he felt John’s own brush his neck again in that same delightful fashion.

“Exactly how long was I like this?” John asked.

“Forty-two minutes.”

“Forty-two? You just stayed still for forty-two minutes while I drooled on you?”

“You weren’t drooling the entire time.” Sherlock hesitated a moment before continuing, mouth dry. “Are you still enjoying it now that you’re awake?”

“Mm.”

Sherlock breathed easier at the lightness in John’s voice. 

“By the particular tone of your voice, that sounds like a yes. Am I correct?”

“Yes. It’s odd. We’ve never touched much before. I used to think that you weren’t a fan of prolonged touching for some reason.”

“I’m not for the most part, and you’re the only one I want to do this with.”

“Mm, okay. So.” John raised his notebook and peered at it. “That’s sensual attraction, then, right?”

“Correct.”

“Is that what I’m feeling right now because I’m enjoying this?”

“Not necessarily. You could just enjoy the physical contact.”

“But it matters that it’s specifically with you, just like you with me. I’ve never—Well, I’ve never done this with any of my other friends.”

“Have you wanted to?”

“No. I don’t think… No.”

Interesting prevarication. Was it possible that John was no stranger to desiring a situation just like this one? But if Sherlock pressed too hard at the wrong time, it could easily backfire, even with John’s current level of openness, so as much as Sherlock yearned to tug at that thread and tease more information out of him, he kept his mouth shut.

“So, um,” John said, swiftly moving on, which only increased Sherlock’s frustrated need for clarification. “How about aesthetic attraction, then?”

“Sometimes I feel it, but it tends to be fleeting and not terribly common, and certainly not to the level that people around me constantly are. I do feel it towards you.”

Gazing at the soft beauty of John’s face, his caring eyes, and that pretty smile on his lips always soothed Sherlock’s soul.

“Okay. To be honest, I’m still having trouble parsing all these out. It’s all a bit confusing.”

“I’d say you’re doing pretty well for your first day.”

“Were you confused when you first learned these things?”

“Oh, yes. Mainly about why people waste so much time on sex.”

Sherlock could feel John’s eye roll, as well as fingers prodding his side. He grinned. 

“Sorry. I understand better now.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. It’s all still utterly incomprehensible to me.”

“That’s alright. We can’t all know everything. Like the Van Buren supernova.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. That goddamn supernova. The one, _one_ and only time when astronomy had ever been remotely relevant to his work and John wouldn’t let him live it down. 

“If you persist in bringing up that bloody thing,” Sherlock said, “I’m going to storm out in a huff and won’t return until you send me a nauseatingly soppy apology.”

“Alright, alright.” John rubbed Sherlock’s side, the touch so soothing that it melted Sherlock’s peevishness immediately. “I promise never to mention it again.”

“I find your reassurances in this matter less than convincing,” Sherlock said, but he had to struggle to retain some annoyance in his voice as John continued to touch him so wonderfully. “But I’ll accept them if you keep doing that.”

“Hm. If I knew this was all it took to calm you down, I would have started doing it ages ago.”

“We’ve not even been together for an hour and you’re already using your charms against me? How disappointing.”

“Please. You turn your puppy dog face at me whenever you want me to tell you where I hid your cigarettes.”

“I do not have a puppy dog face.”

Sherlock turned affronted eyes at John, who raised his head to meet them, his face bearing the most obnoxious, satisfied grin.

“Yes. You do. First you shout and rail, but then your eyes go all sad and pitiful, as if that could get me to cave.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked forward, infuriatingly unable to think of a defense against the accusation, for it was unfortunately true, damn it all. 

“It’s adorable, honestly,” John continued. “But it’s never going to work.”

Wait a moment. 

“Adorable? You find me adorable?”

“Not when you’re driving me round the bend, but…” John’s eyes softened. “Yeah, sometimes. Like now.”

“Now? Why? What exactly is my face doing right now?”

John narrowed his eyes at him.

“Hang on. Do you just want to know what it feels like so you can use it to manipulate me whenever you want?”

“Of course not.” Not completely. “I’m just interested to know what exactly it is about my face that you like.”

“Bollocks.”

“Please, as if you didn’t just manipulate me by stroking my side.”

John considered this.

“Fair point. I’m still not telling you. In any case, I like your face all the time, not only when it’s making certain expressions.”

“You do?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, you are…” John gestured vaguely at Sherlock’s face. “You know.” 

“I do?”

John rolled his eyes.

“Please, you use it to get your way all the time. You know how bloody gorgeous you are.”

Sherlock grinned. This truly was the most marvelous day.

“Yes, I have noticed certain reactions to my physical appearance, which I do exploit on occasion.”

“You enjoy it. Always pulling up your coat collar, wearing those fine, tailored suits, hair carefully tousled.”

Sherlock sobered, flashes of flirtatious gazes and sexually laced comments pricking at his memory.

“I like looking my best. I do it for me, not anyone else, not even you, although I do appreciate your admiration of it. But while others finding me attractive does have its uses, it is often far more irritating and uncomfortable the way that people look at me. Even someone with no powers of deduction would be able to see the sexual interest in their eyes and I can feel them fantasizing about taking me to bed in a manner that I most certainly would not enjoy, and it makes my skin crawl. A bitting comment drives them back and they don’t bother me again, but there’s always more.”

At some point, Sherlock’s right hand had begun tapping restlessly at his leg, and he could feel John’s gaze burning into the side of his face, and although he knew now that John wouldn’t mock him for it or make him feel like a bizarre specimen, he still found himself too much of a coward to turn around and see the no doubt pitying look on his face. 

When John touched his back, he inhaled a sharp gasp.

“Hey, it’s okay,” John said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Sherlock leaned into the touch, throat clenching as gratitude and affection swelled inside him at John’s simple gesture and understanding.

“Thank you,” he said. He finally managed to look at John, almost crumbling at the affection in his eyes. “Do you mind if I rest my head on your shoulder this time?”

“Yes, of course.”

It took some adjusting to find the right angle since John was so much shorter than him, but when Sherlock finally managed to tuck his head comfortably on John, it was bliss. His eyes slid closed as John continued to rub his back, not even needing to be told how much the sensation soothed Sherlock, banishing the toxic feel of people’s lecherous designs toward him. 

“When we first met,” John asked, “at Angelo’s restaurant, when you thought that I was interested in you? Did that make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to imply that I… But…”

“A bit. I couldn’t detect any clear sexual intention, but you did speak in a most unfortunately suggestive way, so I couldn’t discount it.”

“I was aiming for mentioning that we had something in common by both being single.”

“I hate to tell you, but you did a horrible job of it.”

“So I gathered.”

“My fears were assuaged by your reaction to my rejection. Although I still wondered if you weren’t attracted to me in some other way. But I already liked you, so I hoped it would be something I could live with.”

“Liked me as a friend?”

“Yes.”

“But you weren’t searching for this kind of relationship?”

“No. But I did… I was lonely.”

A moment of silence passed.

“So was I,” John said, holding Sherlock a little tighter. 

Sherlock shut his eyes, focusing only on being enveloped by John. His crisp scent. The soothing cadence of his breath. His comforting touch. His fervent promise that he would never leave.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs. Hudson interrupted them far too soon for Sherlock’s liking, the sound of her footsteps excruciating as she came up the stairs bearing a bag of groceries, something or other that John had asked her to get while she was at the shop. She did sometimes offer. Sherlock scowled as John pulled back from him and scooched nearly to the other side of the sofa, pretending that they had just been sitting there as he returned her greeting, but he calmed as John glanced at him apologetically and a determined expression came over his features. 

Are you going to tell her? Sherlock inquired with his eyes.

John nodded, adopting a serious expression, and he stood up, following her into the kitchen. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “Sherlock and I have something we need to tell you.”

She turned to him and her face immediately fell.

“Oh, dear. You’re moving out? But you were getting on so well.”

“What? No. I’m not moving out. It’s happy news. We… Sherlock and I… We have decided to… I’m not sure what to call it yet. But…”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Sherlock shot out of the sofa and joined them in the kitchen before this dragged on for the rest of the day. “John and I are queerplatonic partners now. I asked and he said yes.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, coming around the table to hug Sherlock, a bright smile on her face. A smile tugged at his own lips as he returned it. Mrs. Hudson was one of the few people whose opinion he cared about, although not enough to curb his worst habits, and her earnest joy at the announcement touched him. She moved on quickly to John, who looked adorably abashed and shy by her ebullience, though pleased given the smile on his face. Thank God. His earlier gravity had been entirely unsuitable, as Mrs. Hudson’s reaction proved, even if it had all been down to nerves and not second thoughts. 

“I was so hoping that you’d be the one for Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, stepping back while still keeping her hands on John’s arms. “You’ve been so good for each other.”

“Yes,” John said, lowering his eyes in that most adorable shy way, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… Yes. Um… So, you know what the term means, then?”

“Of course I do. Sherlock explained it all ages ago.”

“Really?” John frowned at Sherlock. “How come you never told me?”

“It never came up,” Sherlock said. 

“But when we were at Angelo’s—”

“Most people refuse to understand it or take it seriously, and I didn’t want to risk you being one of those people.”

“I’m the one who brought it up, actually,” Mrs. Hudson said. “When he moved in, I asked him if he would be bringing anyone home with him on occasion. Not that I mind, but just to be aware, you know, and he said he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing. And that put me in my mind of my cousin Alice, who is also ace. She doesn’t mind me saying. She’s very open about it herself. So I mentioned that she was just the same because of it, and Sherlock got this look in his eyes.”

“So I told her,” Sherlock said. “It felt safe to do so at that point.”

A moment which he had never anticipated, since why would his sexual orientation be relevant to his landlady? Yet it had been a relief all the same not to have to dodge around the issue or have to deal with future probing questions about his non-existent love life, since it had become very clear during their acquaintance that she was the chatty type. Her instant understanding and support also made for an unusual and much appreciated surprise, much like John’s had been, and she had risen in his estimation even more. 

“Okay,” John said. “Well, I still don’t know much about it, I’m afraid, but it made sense.”

“Oh, of course it does. You two have been joined at the hip since you moved in. I was so glad about it, too. I could tell he needed someone, though, of course, he wouldn’t admit it.”

“Would you look at the time?” Sherlock said, not even glancing at the clock. “Isn’t it time for you to start making dinner, Mrs. Hudson?”

“No, I don’t. I have leftovers.”

“In any case,” John said, in a much more conciliatory tone, ever the diplomat, “we still have a lot to discuss, so we could use some time alone.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at John before turning a chastising eye at Sherlock. “You could stand to learn some manners from John here.”

God, now she did sound like mummy. In any case, his purpose was achieved. She left, closing the door behind her, and Sherlock was once more blessedly alone with John, who still looked a bit thrown by the conversation. 

“How are you faring?” Sherlock asked, sidling up closer to him. “Is it too much all at once?”

“Oh, no. It’s fine” John reassured him with a small smile. “I guess that I shouldn’t have assumed that she didn’t know just because I didn’t. She has known you longer. Does anyone else know? Mycroft? I suppose not Molly, though. She’s still fawning over you.”

“That’s her mistake. I’ve made it clear enough that I’m not interested, haven’t I?”

“Not all the time. Not when you compliment her to get her to do you a favour.” 

“That’s her mistake, too. I can’t help it if it’s a very productive one.”

John shot him a reproving look, which on any other day Sherlock would have simply ignored, but he couldn’t risk John’s censure at such a tender stage in their new relationship. 

“Alright,” Sherlock said, backing down. “She’ll disabuse herself of that notion when we tell people about us, so there’s no need to look at me like that. Lestrade doesn’t know, either. Mycroft didn’t need telling. He figured it out on his own.”

Sherlock ground out the last. The notion that Mycroft had known something so deeply personal about Sherlock while Sherlock himself had still been mired in frustrated confusion as yet another “universal” human trait escaped his comprehension set his nerves on fire. At least Mycroft was equally clueless on the romance front, even if he claimed to comprehend the theory of it better, but he thoroughly enjoyed the sexual part. Sherlock had no interest or envy about such a subject, but he didn’t need Mycroft knowing more about him about something else. 

“Are you going to tell him about us?” John asked.

“He’ll find out on his own soon enough. He always does.”

“Should I expect a threatening visit from him when he does? Something about how if I break your heart he’ll disappear me off the face of the Earth?”

“Most likely. But don’t worry. I won’t let him harm you.”

“I’m not really worried about that.”

“Really? You should be. But really, don’t.”

John frowned with some concern at that. 

“Okay. Anyway, so… Partners? That term works for me, although it’s a bit vague, but the full one will need an explanation every time, won’t it?”

“I expect that it will. Which will be irritating, but necessary, unfortunately.”

“More irritating for me than for you. You love explaining things.”

“Not over and over again.”

“Me, neither, but I’ve gotten lots of that telling everyone that I’m not gay. I guess now I just have a different way of saying it.”

Of course, plenty would scratch their heads at the unfamiliar concept and come to the reductive conclusion that they were, in fact, gay, but best not mention that. 

“Lots of people are still going to think we’re gay, aren’t they?”

Unless John brought it up himself.

“That is the most likely probability, yes. Are you sure that you’re alright with that?”

“Yes,” John said after hesitating for a second, yet only that. “It’ll be no different than now. We’ll just explain.” 

Sherlock wasn’t wholly confident about this given John’s crossness over the assumption so far. But only time would tell, so they moved on to John’s other questions, which were pretty straightforward. The only significant change in their relationship, apart from the increased commitment level, was the introduction of physical contact, which would for the moment primarily include cuddling on the sofa and more touching of shoulders and arms in general. Sex and kissing had already been discounted as undesirable by both parties. Anything else could be brought up and considered at a later date, such as the handholding that Sherlock was hoping for but was still too unsure whether or not to suggest since he didn’t want to press John too hard right now. 

The rest of the discussion involved aromanticism and asexuality itself. John kept stumbling and apologizing about overwhelming Sherlock with questions until Sherlock gave up, reached up to the topmost shelf in the bookcase, and handed him _The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexualty_ , saying, “Why don’t you read that first? Then we’ll get back to it.”

He went off into the kitchen to try out a new experiment in a failed attempt at distraction, for his usually keen focus kept straying to John sitting in his chair, wondering what expressions his face was making. More confusion, most certainly, as well as curiosity. Was he taking notes again? Sherlock couldn’t hear the scribbling of pen on paper, but that didn’t mean anything. Sherlock itched to sneak past John and into his room to grab a nicotine patch since he couldn’t enjoy the cigarettes in his coat (he better move those before John noticed), but from everything he’d heard (not that he had been paying the closest attention, a fact which was backfiring on him now), breaking a promise on the first day of a new relationship was a decidedly foolish move. 

John read until dinnertime, when, oddly enough, it was Sherlock who had to remind him to eat something, although partly because he couldn’t take the suspense anymore. More questions followed at dinner. Thankfully, though, Sherlock finally managed to dissuade him from feeling awkward about his many enqueries, even if they did get a bit annoying after a while, but as long as John didn’t say, “I changed my mind, I can’t do this”, what did a little repetition matter? 

After dinner, Sherlock would have normally resumed his experiment, but John provided the far more tempting option of a night of telly on the couch, renewing their previous snug contact. Sherlock took him up on the offer in a second, snuggling up to his side like before, hyperaware towards John’s every movement and breath in case it denoted discomfort.

“You can relax, you know,” John said twenty minutes in. 

“I am relaxed,” Sherlock said, struggling not to shift his head on John’s shoulder. 

“You’re not. You’re nervous. Look, I know this is all new to me, and, well, to you, too, but we just have to communicate.”

“I’m not very good at that.”

“I know.”

“You’re not good at that, either.”

John shifted a bit.

“Yeah, I know that, too. But if I’m uncomfortable with anything, I’ll let you know, okay?” 

“Will you?”

“I will. I promise.”

`````````````````````````

_Five days later_

“You promised that you would tell me if you were uncomfortable,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at John, who was frowning at him in confusion as to why Sherlock had suddenly pulled him away from the dead teacher and into the utility cupboard. 

“I will. Why are we in here?”

“You haven’t told anyone that we’re partners despite having had ample opportunities for doing so. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson are all here, all of whom you have spoken to, and yet you’ve kept mum.”

“I didn’t realize you were paying attention,” John said, shifting on the balls of his feet as he lowered his eyes, a devastating sign. 

“Of course I’m paying attention. Have you changed your mind about telling people? You’re the one who insisted.”

John sucked in a deep breath before meeting Sherlock’s eyes. 

“No. I haven’t. It’s fine. It just doesn’t seem like the time or the place. There’s a dead woman on the floor. That’s where all our attention should be, not on our private lives. It’s best to tell them later.” John opened the door, taking a step outside. “Alright?” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed even further, yearning to storm out of here and proclaim in a booming voice that he and John were together before John could voice more objections about it. But John would sulk, and a sulky John was prickly and uncooperative. It would only make everything worse. So Sherlock strode past him, ignoring John’s hangdog, apologetic look, and returned to the crime scene before John spoonfed him more excuses. If John wasn’t truly comfortable with people knowing, even while appreciating Mrs. Hudson’s support, then so be it. Never mind that Sherlock did want to announce to the world that this amazing man was his partner, even if he was being a right cock at the moment. 

The past few days had gone well. More than well. Spectacular. John continued to curiously absorb all the new information that Sherlock gave him, and their casual touches had increased in a most delightful fashion, as had their snuggles on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson fawned over them as if they had announced their engagement, smiling all the time, bringing them special treats, waxing lyrical about how happy she was that Sherlock and John had found each other. She thoroughly embarrassed John in the process, but apart from the occasional spot of confusion, John seemed eager and comfortable enough in their new arrangement. 

Until it came time to show the world outside of their flat. Now it was all suddenly too scary, too real, for John’s excuses about it being too inconvenient right now were just that. Ridiculous excuses. The guilt wincing in his face was a dead giveaway. 

Forget John and his insecurities. Sherlock had a case for the first time in two weeks and he wasn’t going to let John ruin it for him. 

Except that John would not stop worrying about it and it was driving Sherlock mad. Sherlock could feel every nervous thought rattling in John’s mind at every instant, even when Sherlock was intensely focused in analyzing clues and devising possible scenarios for how exactly the teacher had been murdered without there being any noticeable mark on her body. How was he supposed to work with John being so bloody distracting? But, oh no, telling would be the real distraction here. We must spare the police officers from gossiping so they can keep their mind on task of doing fuck all. 

Sherlock was certain that John would finally cave in the morgue with Molly giving Sherlock doe eyes again, for hadn’t that been a particular concern of John’s? How Sherlock should make it clear that he didn’t return her feelings (as if he hadn’t on numerous occasions already), and stop tugging at her strings to get what he wanted? Surely John felt some compulsion to speak up now, all frown lined that he was, his attention as much on Molly and Sherlock as on the corpse on the slab. Yet he insisted on staying quiet, his lips pressed together with discomfort that Sherlock had no patience for. 

When they returned to their flat that night, John tried to broach the subject, the apologetic expression on his face giving him away. Sherlock shut him down before he could say a word, focusing on the mass of data tacked on the wall.

“You want to wait until after the case, we’ll wait until after the case. I have work to do now.” 

He was only partly disappointed when John stepped back, murmuring, “Alright.”

```````````````````

_Twenty-eight hours later_

Sherlock had solved the case and John still wouldn’t say anything. He just stood there in Lestrade’s office as Lestrade ordered his officers to arrest the school’s night guard, frowning at Sherlock’s pointed stare before realization dawned on his face and he looked down at his shoes. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. Sherlock had solved the case, and he couldn’t even savor the moment because John wouldn’t do the right thing and hold up his end of the bargain. Because he still didn’t even after Lestrade returned to his office, the coward. He and Sherlock could stand here for an hour and John still wouldn’t be able to muster the courage to admit that he had any sort of more than strictly friendly relationship with a man. Why had Sherlock bothered hoping that John would be alright with people knowing when he made such a fuss about people thinking that they were gay? And this was only Lestrade. What did it matter?

Murmuring a quick “afternoon” at Lestrade, Sherlock strode out of the office and down the hall, John dogging his footsteps. Sherlock quickened his pace, not turning around as John called out, “Sherlock, wait” or letting him catch up until he exited the building and stopped on the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

“Sherlock, hang on,” John said, tugging Sherlock’s arm down. 

Sherlock let him, but immediately shrugged off his hold. 

“Look, John, I’ve always known that you’re uncomfortable with people knowing about us. Let’s not pretend, please. But at least do me the courtesy of admitting it.”

John released a long, uncomfortable breath and rubbed his forehead, a joy to watch, truly. How pleasant it was to have confirmation that one’s partner was embarrassed by their connection.

“Sherlock, I don’t…” John glanced around at the passerby, because what people thought was oh so important. “It wasn’t the right time. Lestrade’s busy wrapping up the case.”

“When exactly would be the right time? When Lestrade is home for dinner? When he goes on holiday? Or will you find some other excuse then, as well? When we discussed this, I gave you the option of keeping it secret. You agreed to tell people.”

“I did, and we will.”

“When? When Lestrade retires? Because at this pace, that’s what you’re aiming for.”

“Alright. We’ll tell him now.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. 

“Oh, please don’t offer just to mollify me. If you don’t actually want to, you’re going to be all sullen and wingy and blaming me for forcing you, and I can’t deal with that.” 

John placed his hand on Sherlock’s left, upper arm, a touch which normally calmed him, but Sherlock refused to be reassured by such paltry gestures. He didn’t shake him off this time, though.

“Sherlock.”

An apology was written all over John’s face, as if Sherlock could be bought so cheaply.

“I’m sorry,” John said, softening his voice. “I’ve never done this before. I’m… I’m nervous, alright? That’s all. I’m not ashamed of what we have or anything like that. I just don’t know how to do this. Telling people. Navigating that.”

“You did do a botch job of it with Mrs. Hudson. But I can tell them if you can’t figure out how to phrase it. That’s not why I’m annoyed with you.”

“I know.” 

John’s remorse was the most aggravating irritant, more so because Sherlock did know better, had known better. It wasn’t John’s fault really. Well, backing down from their agreement was his fault, but Sherlock had asked a straight man with serious insecurities to be open about an unorthodox relationship. It had been too much to ask, no matter how much Sherlock wished not to hide it. 

He was about to tell John to forget it when John took his hand. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, breathlessly gaping at their entwined fingers. They had never held hands before. John had looked away and shifted in his seat in discomfort the one and only time that Sherlock had suggested it. 

“I’m rectifying the situation,” John said, grip firm, fingers chilly from the autumn air, but warming up quickly against Sherlock’s own, which were frozen in place, terrified whether he should squeeze back or let go. People were staring, at least one police officer practically tripping over himself as he cast them a wide-eyed look of wonderment, something that John usually very much minded. Yet he was still holding Sherlock’s hand, even while he seemed even more apprehensive than when Sherlock had first told him that he was attracted to him. 

“John, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to do this.”

“You don’t. We established that a moment ago.”

“Sherlock.” John tugged his hand forward as he took a step back, making it even clearer for anyone who cared to look that they were indeed holding hands and not just standing close to each other. “I’m holding your hand in public,” John continued, lowering his voice while casting nervous glances around him.

“Because you feel bad, not because you want to.”

“How do you know I don’t want to?”

“You haven’t wanted to in private when I wasn’t cross with you.”

John winced at that.

“I know. I… I just… I’ve never held another man’s hand before.” John’s voice lowered to a whisper at that last. “It’s not like… I have accidentally fallen asleep on people’s shoulders before, but not…”

Sherlock touched John’s wrist with his right hand.

“It’s alright,” he said softly. “We don’t have to.”

John met his eyes in an intense glance that Sherlock feared to interpret and get wrong. 

“Do you want me to let go?” John asked. “I will if you do.”

Sherlock frowned as he weighted the potential subtext behind these words, along with the agitation and desperate eagerness to please on John’s face.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

A smile jerked on John’s face.

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but I’m not comfortable having human body parts in the fridge.”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one.” He sobered as he glanced down at their joined hands. “This, however…”

John sucked in a long breath, determination settling over his features. 

“I don’t like the staring, but if I weren’t alright with it, I would never have lasted with you. And I would rather have tried this first at home, not on the street, but here we are.” John squeezed his hand. “I’m not uncomfortable with this.” He glanced down, voice lowering again. “I was afraid of what it might mean if I did this, but I was an idiot.” John met his eyes again, squaring his shoulders. “We’re partners, and I’ve been a rubbish one the last couple of days. I rather like holding your hand. I don’t want to hide our relationship by being a coward because people might not understand. So, um…” John tilted his head toward Scotland Yard with a wobbly, apologetic smile. “You want to go back in?”

Sherlock scrutinized that smile and the apprehension in the bend of John’s shoulders, seeking any hint that John’s attempt at sincerity was a lie. But his eyes kept begging him to say yes and accept that John really did want to do this even though he was clearly a nervous wreck. 

“You’re not only doing this out of guilt?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head.

“No. I do feel bad, but no.”

“You are sure, absolutely sure that you’re alright with everyone knowing?”

John glanced around them. 

“I think it’s possible that they know something’s up already. The gossip might have already reached Lestrade for all I know.”

Most of the passerby were walking on through, but there were a couple of odd glances. If that police officer from earlier had blabbed, the gossip mill would be on fire right now inside the Yard, along with all sorts of annoyingly incorrect assumptions. 

“You’re probably right,” Sherlock said. 

“I am quite often, you know.”

“So you are okay with it?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, look at what I’m doing and make a deduction.”

John raised their joined hands. Sherlock looked between them and John’s face, which was now more irritated than anything else, an expression that Sherlock was most familiar with and found immensely pleasant to watch, not that he would telling John that. John had been holding his hand for quite a long while now, with plenty of witnesses. Although he still held himself more stiffly than normal, and a larger trace of nerves remained on his face than Sherlock would have wished, he looked back at Sherlock with utmost sincerity. Sherlock released a long exhale, finally allowing himself to squeeze John’s hand. 

“Alright,” he said, smiling tentatively. “Let’s go back in.”

John smiled back.

“Okay.” 

He turned to face the building, sucked in a deep, fortifying breath, and started walking, tugging Sherlock along. 

Then stopped. Then started walking again. Then stopped again right outside the door.

“You are actually going to do this, right?” Sherlock asked, annoyed by the nerve-wracking stop and go.

“Yes, I’m going to do this.”

“I can make the announcement if you want.”

“No. I can do it.”

Bracing himself, John pushed open the glass door and went inside, Sherlock in tow. As expected, conversations stuttered to a halt as people noticed their joined hands.

“Afternoon,” John said to anyone who dared meet his eye, but these random officers weren’t important, not the sort of people whom you informed of a new relationship, so John breezed past them without a word of explanation, even though they were surely making the wrong assumption from what they say, yet John didn’t bother correcting them, not until they arrived back to Lestrade’s division, finding him speaking with Donovan at her desk. Their words dried on their tongues as they turned to them, brows rising as they looked down at Sherlock and John’s hands. The pressure of John’s grip had been increasing as they made their way up to the fifth floor, but Sherlock didn’t mind one bit as John showed no signs of wanting to flee despite exhibiting telltale signs of apprehension and dread. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” John said quickly as Lestrade and Donovan opened their mouths to comment, confusion on their faces. “We meant to tell you guys this earlier, but we got caught up. Sort of.”

“John, don’t start babbling,” Sherlock said. 

John grimaced. 

“Right. So, as you can tell, we’re uh… partners now. Not romantic partners. Queerplatonic partners. It’s a thing. Look it up. Or text us questions, since you’re probably going to do that, anyway.”

“Text John,” Sherlock said. “I won’t answer.”

By this point, the entire office had grown silent, every eye turned towards them, people either standing or craning around cubicles as if that made their eavesdropping any less noticeable, facial expressions alternating between confusion and confirmation, with a couple of the less friendly ones shocked and appalled that someone was willing to be in any sort of relationship with the freakish Sherlock Holmes. Donovan was one of these, always so eager to warn John away from Sherlock, as if John could possibly be happy doing something as mind-numbing as fishing when he could be solving crimes alongside Sherlock. 

Sherlock smirked at her, stepping closer to John to lean casually against him, even tilting his head to the side to touch the top of John’s. John shifted, trying to look up at him, but didn’t move away. If only Anderson were here. Sherlock would love to laugh at the horror on his face. Ooh, perhaps he was at the lab. They should pop by. Say hello. 

“Congratulations,” Lestrade said, puzzled, but with a sincere smile, the only person in this building who didn’t treat Sherlock like a necessary evil that must be tolerated. Sherlock forgot to appreciate that sometimes. “I admit I don’t really know what it means but…”

“We’re partners,” Sherlock said, taking over. John had fulfilled his part of the bargain and it gave Sherlock the most wonderful, light feeling in his chest. Even the joy of wrapping up a case couldn’t compete with this. “It’s platonic, nor romantic, so whatever silly assumptions are floating in your head, discard them right now. We will not be going into detail, as it’s none of your business, so don’t bother asking.”

“How long has this been going on?” Donovan asked.

Sherlock straightened.

“I’m afraid that Q & A is over for the day,” he said, tugging John away. 

“What?” Donovan protested. “I don’t get a question?”

“No. Come on, John.”

“See you guys later,” John said, quickly falling into step beside Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him carefully as he walked, sobering at the flustered apprehension, yet he couldn’t detect any regret.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. It was a little tough at first, but yes. I’m alright.”

John nodded, smiling at Sherlock, a bit shaky, but exhilarated. Yes, that was certainly exhilaration. Sherlock smiled back, immensely relieved.

“Glad to hear it. You did fine. We can go home now. Just one more stop first.”

Anderson gaped at them like Sherlock had announced that he was the new king of England. It was glorious.

````````````````````````````

John let go of his hand when they returned to the street, swiftly moving to the curb to hail a cab. He shifted on his feet, glancing at Sherlock as the cab pulled up before opening the door and climbing inside. Sherlock followed, carefully watching John as John gave the cab driver their home address before falling back in the seat and gazing out the window. His earlier excitement was fading, exhaustion leeching into his face, signs of coming down from an emotional high, still jumpy but drained and needing rest. 

“You should eat when we get home,” Sherlock said, glancing at the back of the cabbie’s head, suddenly unwilling to broach the subject directly within his earshot. They may have just announced their relationship to half the Met, but the inside of a cab had become less cozy and safe since the first case they’d worked on. 

“You should eat, too,” John said, looking at him. “I can’t remember when was the last time you ate.”

“This morning, wasn’t it?”

“Two biscuits doesn’t count as eating.”

“Of course it does. I consumed food. That’s what eating consists of.”

John rolled his eyes but smiled with amusement. The smile faded as he closed his eyes, dropping his head back, utterly drained of energy. Sherlock yearned to reach for him, but the cabbie’s presence kept him a frustratingly respectable distance from John. He swallowed a gasp of surprise when John grasped his right hand, which lied on his thigh, his grip so tight that it felt like he was struggling to hold on else he slip off a cliff. He opened his eyes, looking at the cabbie, licking his bottom lip. 

“That was, um,” he murmured, “much more tiring than I expected.”

Sherlock rubbed John’s little finger with his thumb, still amazed that John had taken the initiative to engage in this most intimate gesture. In public, no less. Sherlock hadn’t been sure before if he hadn’t wanted to hold hands out of some straight panic or simply out of lack of interest, either in the activity itself or just engaging in it with him. Yet now, when it was no longer needed as a visual announcement of their connection or to reassure Sherlock, John was clinging to him like a limpet. It brought to mind John’s hesitant negation about whether he’d ever desired to cuddle one of his male friends, which had strongly implied that he had at some point, whether consciously or not. It had definitely been apparent enough for him to be aware of it, for however brief the moment may have been. 

“Difficult things are tiring,” Sherlock said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

John looked at him. 

“I don’t regret it, you know,” he said. 

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes even as he smiled at the statement.

“You don’t need to keep reassuring me. We’re alright.”

“Okay. I just want to make sure. I know I messed up.”

His grip on Sherlock’s hand shifted to a more comfortable hold, loose enough for Sherlock to turn over his own to interlace their fingers, slowly, giving John plenty of time to object. John smiled, resuming a snug, yet no longer clingy, grip. 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, smiling back. “You made up for it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade waited a full hour and twenty minutes to text them, a surprising amount of time considering how nosy he could be. He had been busy, Sherlock supposed. Although his shift was far from over, so it was more likely to have been an unusually considerate amount of self-restraint. Then again, he did text Sherlock, contrary to instructions, several times, no less, so he was still hopeless. 

_I looked it up. I’d already supposed that you weren’t into romance. So you’re aromantic, then?_

_Sorry, I probably shouldn’t ask that._

_Are you going to ignore me too if I ask how long you have been together? Unless you have been since the beginning._

_Right, you did say you wouldn’t answer. Look, I just want to say that I’m happy for you. John is a good guy. You certainly seem happier with him around. That’s all. I’ll shut up now._

Sherlock read the message over, considering for a moment before replying.

_Thank you. Yes, I’m aromantic. Also asexual. We’ve been together for a week. Direct any further enquiries to John._

Well. Not completely hopeless, after all. 

``````````````````````

Sherlock awoke to the sound of a most unwelcome voice piercing through the bedroom door from the sitting room. Mycroft. Sherlock flew out of bed, barely pausing to grab his dressing gown before yanking open the door and striding through the hallway, finding John and Mycroft sitting across from each other. John was still in his gown and pajamas, while Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair, just to be annoying. Both men looked up at him as he entered, John with a look of relief and Mycroft with an amused smile, idly twirling the umbrella at his side. He had ceased speaking the moment that Sherlock opened his door, abruptly ending after saying, “… two of you are of a different disposition.”

“The love bird finally awakens,” Mycroft crooned in the most irritating way possible. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That’s not remotely what this is about and you know it,” he said, sitting on John’s right armrest. He exchanged a brief glance with John, during which John indicated that he was fine, albeit as bothered by Mycroft’s presence as Sherlock was, then turned back to Mycroft. “You’re in my seat.”

With a gracious nod, Mycroft stood up and moved to the side, hovering over them like the bird of prey he gloried in being. After a moment, he raised his brow at Sherlock. 

“Well, aren’t you going to sit in the chair?” he asked.

“I never said I would, just that you aren’t allowed to sit in it.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s side, perfectly aware that Mycroft could see it. “Mycroft didn’t threaten to murder me or anything.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on Mycroft. “He would never be so blunt.”

“Please,” Mycroft, pretending all innocence, as if he could ever be that. “I’m hardly going to fall into the cliché of threatening John with bodily harm if he hurts you. How tiresome. I’m only here because I heard of this new stage of your relationship and I wished to congratulate you personally. I would have done so last week if only you’d been kind enough to inform me of it.”

Mycroft shot Sherlock an admonishing look, as if those ever worked on him.

“I knew you’d become aware of it the moment everyone else did, so it hardly seemed necessary. And here you are, just a day later, and it’s not even half past seven.”

“I would have called at a later time, but I have a full day ahead. Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

“No, you’re not.”

Mycroft smirked. 

“So how are things progressing, then? Well, I hope.”

“We’re doing great,” John said, tone deceptively light while actually seeming to recall a former point in their conversation that Sherlock had missed. “We haven’t had any problems.”

A lie, and an easy one for Mycroft to decipher, but who cared as long as he went along with it. And he did, conceding the point with a polite smile.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Have you informed your side of the family yet?”

“I’ll tell them when we’re ready to,” John said, not batting an eye, to Sherlock’s immense satisfaction. Oh, how he would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Mycroft first secreted him away and tried to intimidate him with all his cloak and dagger nonsense, and John refusing to give an inch, doubtlessly staring him down, chin up, every inch the stalwart, stubborn soldier that Sherlock was proud to have at his side. 

“At least,” Mycroft said, “we’re not the only ones to have been kept in the dark. Sherlock, will you be informing our parents or shall I?”

“I’ll tell them. Now.” Sherlock stood up, clapping his hands together. “If you don’t mind, John and I have to get ready for the day, and you’re intruding.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it, but could I just have a private word with you first, please?”

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of John.”

Mycroft took a step forward, lowering his head for a second to make himself less imposing.

“It’s not like that,” he said, the sudden sincerity in his tone giving Sherlock pause. “I just want to talk to you for a moment.”

John stood up.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I can go up to my room.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “You stay. We’ll go into my room.”

Sherlock led the way, pressing his right fingers taut against his palm to keep them from shaking in frustration. Stimming in front of Mycroft was the last thing he wanted to do. Mycroft shut the door behind them, his expression serious and concerned, which gave Sherlock the urge to flee. It made him feel awkward and strange, and he never knew what to do about it. Heart to hearts with Mycroft were about as comfortable as hiking through a blizzard, yet he kept insisting on them on a regular basis.

“How are you, really?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m fine. You heard John, we’re doing great.”

Mycroft raised a skeptical brow.

“No problems?”

“That was an obvious lie, but every relationship has hurdles. We’re working them out. There’s no need for you to play the concerned, older brother.”

“I’m not playing. You’ve never been in this sort of relationship before. I want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I am. We are. John didn’t understand what I wanted at first, but we talked it over and we’re working it out. I’m happy. You don’t need to worry just because John is of a different disposition than me.”

“So you heard that part, did you? I merely meant that this sort of mixed relationships can be tricky.”

“How would you know? You don’t do relationships.” 

Mycroft smiled ruefully.

“No, but I have had a run-in with uneven wants and expectations.”

Sherlock frowned before snorting out a laugh.

“Oh, dear. One of your bedmates caught feelings for you, did they?”

“I had to end it. Neither of us was satisfied with the other by that point. I just don’t want that to happen to you.”

“It won’t,” Sherlock said with more certainty than he actually felt, damn it all. “We’ve agreed on an open channel of communication so we’ll know if the other one is unhappy with something.”

“Neither of you is very good at communicating.”

Leave it to Mycroft to be annoying by pointing out what Sherlock already knew.

“We’re trying, and it’s working. John has been supportive from the beginning. He wants to be with me. He’s proven that, and not only yesterday. This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you were going to seek to poke holes in it where there aren’t any.”

“Alright.” Mycroft raised a conciliatory hand. “I’ll back off. I really do hope you’re right and that John proves to be worthy of your trust. I do want you to be happy.”

Here came that horrible, awkward, touched, funny feeling again. Sherlock could never figure out whether to lean into it or flee the country. 

“I am,” he said, hating how he suddenly couldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes, and how much information that transmitted to him.

“I’m glad.” Mycroft smiled, disturbingly genuine. “I’ll see myself out.”

He pulled open the door and stepped out. Sherlock listened to him walk through the hall, say goodbye to John, then continue on down the stairs. Sherlock’s right hand jerked at his side before he shook off the pesky feeling infesting his chest and returned to the sitting room. John looked at him with concern. Great, even more worry, as if Sherlock were some wilting flower that could disintegrate at the slightest touch.

“Everything alright?” he asked in that soft way of his.

Sherlock sighed, his displeasure wilting. He couldn’t find it in him to be irritated at John when he looked at him with such caring.

“Yes. How about you? What did he tell you?”

John sank his hands into his pockets, his stiff posture and momentarily downturned glance indicating annoyance and unease.

“He wasn’t here long before you woke up,” he said. “He was trying to be a bit intimidating, although I think that’s just his natural persona.”

“It is. He enjoys it. Did he threaten you?”

“No. He questioned me a bit. How long had we been together. Who we’d told. If I really understood what I was doing since we don’t feel the same way towards each other.”

Sherlock tapped restlessly at his leg, glaring through the window at the spot where Mycroft’s company car has surely been a moment ago. 

“I told him a week,” John continued, “that it was none of his business, and that yes, I know what I’m doing and I wouldn’t hurt you. I wanted to call him off for being a prat, but he is your brother, after all.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Please, go ahead next time. I don’t mind at all.”

John smiled back, looking more at ease now. 

“Well, he could still have me killed.”

“Imprisoned is more likely, in some nasty cesspool. But don’t worry. I wouldn’t let him.”

“You better not.” John glanced back at the kitchen. “I’m starved. Breakfast?”

“Yes, please.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Two months later_

Hat-Man and Robin.

Some idiot journalist had called them Hat-Man and Robin in an article prefaced by a picture of them sneaking out of the theater last night wearing those ridiculous hats. Which they had been forced to do by the mob of press and cameras flashing in their faces while Sherlock and John scurried over to the nearest cab. Sherlock never wore hats, ever, and now he was being called this silly name just because he had been seeking to escape exactly this. If he had suspected that this might happen, he would have left the wretched thing alone. And there was more. Mrs. Hudson had brought up no less than five newspapers filled with poorly framed candids of the two of them looking thoroughly undignified. 

“There will be more online,” John said, frowning as he sifted through them on the kitchen table. 

Breakfast plates sat before them, prepared by Sherlock, who had been coerced into “contributing in the kitchen every once in a while”, as John had so firmly put it. At least once a week, to be precise, case or no case. As exactly seven days had elapsed since the last time Sherlock had cooked, he had been forced to pause analyzing the data that they had collected on the wall and fry some eggs and rashers. It didn’t much matter. He continued sifting through the information unabated in his head, strings of newspaper clippings and bank statements overlaying the sight of the pan and stove in his mind’s eye even as he cracked open the eggs and poured them over the sizzling metal. But the appearance of Mrs. Hudson bearing these wretched newspapers along with the morning tea had thoroughly disturbed his concentration. 

“I had been afraid this might happen some day,” Mrs. Hudson said in a lamenting tone. “With your blog being so popular, it was bound to.”

“I’ve had my blog for years,” Sherlock said, “and this has never happened before.”

“Not your blog,” John said. “Mine. Our hit counter is through the roof. You heard Lestrade last night. We’re an internet phenomenon. Where do you think our clients come from?”

Sherlock huffed into his tea. He had never had any need to depend on online hits to keep himself busy, although John’s jottings had diminished the dry periods considerably. And there had been no repeat of that infuriating incident when John had so rudely wondered about Sherlock’s “spectacular ignorance”. Not that Sherlock had admitted to reading any further articles, but he reserved the right to verify what was being written about him. 

Judging that he had consumed a sufficient amount of calories to satisfy John, Sherlock left his half-filled plate and returned to his data wall.

“Hey,” John said. “You barely touched your egg. Get back here.”

“I’ll finish later,” Sherlock said, already fully absorbed back in the case, barely hearing John’s mumbled “sure you will”. 

“Crime fighting couple tackles new murder,” Mrs. Hudson read aloud.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side and peered at John, who was frowning at a copy of _The Sun_ over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. Did he look upset? Certainly, but what kind of upset? On the surface, the press proclaiming their more than friendly involvement to the world was only an extension of them telling people, but their relationship being speculated upon in the mouths of gossips was decidedly irritating, even more so when John was uncomfortable with people referring to them as a couple. 

John huffed angrily as he read.

“They characterized us completely wrong,” he said.

“How so?” Sherlock asked, going to their sides to look at the paper. Great, another ghastly, poorly lit photograph. 

“Sources claim that Holmes and Watson are platonic partners,” John read. “But the two of them have been seen engaging in physical, romantic gestures that go beyond mere friendship. We can only speculate as to the true nature of their relationship. For God’s sake,” John broke off, gulping down his tea to calm himself. 

As soon as he put the cup down, Sherlock grabbed it and did the same, irritation swelling within him at the idiocy of the feeble-minded media. 

“And they call themselves journalists,” Mrs. Hudson tutted, annoyed on their behalf. “They’re just trying to sell papers with a salacious story. What can you expect from _The Sun_?”

“I’m sure they’d find the truth too boring for their tastes,” Sherlock bit out bitterly. “Nothing’s interesting to them unless they think someone’s having sex.”

He grabbed John’s laptop from the center of the table and pulled it to him, sitting down beside him. John huffed, but didn’t bother mentioning that Sherlock’s own laptop was just in the sitting room, having given up protesting Sherlock’s liberal use of his computer a while ago. 

“How high was the hit counter yesterday?” Sherlock asked, pulling up John’s blog. 

John scooched his chair over to look at the screen while Mrs. Hudson moved to stand between them. 

“I don’t remember the number,” John said, brows rising, “but it was much smaller than that. By a good two thousand at least. Hang on.”

John tugged the laptop to him, having spotted the same thing Sherlock had. The newest comment on his latest article read:

_Are you two really a couple? You look so sweet together._

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said. “At least it’s not insulting, is it? Even though they still have it wrong.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asked. “We most certainly do not look sweet.”

“I beg to differ, dear.” 

She tapped his shoulder. John looked away shyly, a hint of color rising in his cheeks. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the laptop back and logged into his own blog. He never paid attention to his hit counter, so he couldn’t tell a difference, but it wasn’t low. No insipid comments, though, which was good. A Google search of their names proved far more irritating. 

“You really shouldn’t be reading the comments,” Mrs. Hudson said while they did just that on one of several articles about them, which was somehow even worse than _The Sun’s_. “It’s only mean people who have nothing better to do.”

“You’re right,” John said tightly, as incensed as Sherlock was by the litany of “platonic partners is just code for gay”, “they should just kiss already”, and “so gross”. Yet he did nothing to stop Sherlock’s scrolling down the page, no matter how much angrier each fresh imbecility made them. Even the well-meaning ones were annoying, going on about how they were taking it slow and how refreshing that was in this day and age. God, it made him sick. 

Sherlock’s phone chimed with a new text. Mycroft. Brilliant. That was all he needed. Lestrade had already texted them pleading innocence in the whole affair and assuring them that if he discovered that one of his people was one of these purported sources, there would be hell to pay. 

“Oh, there’s a good one,” John, pointing at the screen. “A platonic partnership is a perfectly legitimate relationship. It’s not code for gay. They’re probably asexual. Well, I’m not, but…” John added under his breath, and Sherlock shot him a searching look.

“Does that bother you?” he asked. 

John had calmed down somewhat about people assuming that he was gay. He had even managed to go on two dates in the last couple of months, something that agonised Sherlock to dwell on, not that he wished John to know that.

John looked up quickly from the screen to meet Sherlock’s eyes. 

“It bothers me that it’s wrong what they’re saying,” he said, face softening as he looked at him. “That’s all. I’m not offended if people think I’m not straight, it’s just inaccurate.”

He touched Sherlock’s left forearm for a moment, retreating far sooner than usual, probably due to Mrs. Hudson’s presence. Sherlock gave him a short nod of acknowledgment right as his phone chimed. He groaned. Mycroft again, the devil.

“You better get that before he decides to come over,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

Perish the thought. Sherlock picked up the phone, pulling up the messages as he stood and stepped away from the table. 

_Have you seen the papers this morning? Not the most flattering portrait._

_I do hope you’re not going to take up that silly hat as a habitual fashion accessory._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

_You know the answer is no_ , he sent. 

_How is John taking it?_ Mycroft replied within moments. _This is a much bigger fuss than he must have been expecting._

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

_John is fine._

John’s phone began to ring. 

“Shit, it’s Harry,” John groaned, holding the phone like it was a bomb about to go off.

_Has he informed his family yet?_ Mycroft replied. 

If Mycroft were in the room now, he’d be grinning like a jackal at the ridiculously pointed timing. 

_Yes._

John put the phone back on the table, shaking his head as it continued to ring. 

“No,” he murmured to himself. “I am not dealing with her right now.” 

_You’re lying_ , Mycroft replied. _I saw it in John’s face the last time I saw him. He’s been putting it off, just like you put off telling mummy._

_Which I should have continued doing. Now she wants me to put him on the phone every time she calls._

_Have you?_

Sherlock could hear the amusement in Mycroft’s tone, even via text.

_Once. It was awkward and awful._

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock espied the data wall. For fuck’s sake, he had a case to work and no time for nonsense about telling family and the press being impertinent berks who thought they were entitled to things that were none of their business. 

_I have things to do_ , Sherlock wrote, stabbing at the keys. _I’m ignoring you now._

Message sent, Sherlock returned to the wall.

“I need to concentrate,” he announced furiously. “I can’t be bothered by all this nonsense right now. If you’re going to keep thinking about it, go downstairs.”

He heard shuffling as John stood up and collected his laptop and the papers while Mrs. Hudson did the same with her tea tray. The sounds grated at Sherlock’s focus even as he dove deep into witness reports and lab results.

“Do you need me for anything?” John asked, standing a couple of feet away.

“Not if you’re going to continue thinking so loudly.”

Feeling an unusual flutter of guilt at the sharpness of his tone, Sherlock glanced at John to make sure that he was alright. John’s face showed the usual exasperation with Sherlock’s manner, but he nodded in acknowledgment before following Mrs. Hudson downstairs. 

The distress in John’s features every time that Sherlock looked at him for the next two days gave Sherlock extra impetus to solve the case quickly. Just like with the teacher case, his focus was so disrupted that he couldn’t even enjoy the work. Only now he was being the rubbish partner, for John, to ease Sherlock’s burden and keep him on task, was shouldering all the stress of the fallout, press and family alike. Their phones would not cease ringing, to the point that Sherlock thrust his own at John for him to deal with, only taking it when he needed it. 

Sherlock’s cross-referencing of the victim’s last activities was upset by a massive row upstairs as John finally accepted one of his sister’s calls, taking it in his room to leave Sherlock out of it as much as for privacy’s sake. Sherlock’s annoyance at being disturbed faded at the fury and hurt in John’s voice. He found himself completely unable to work as he tried to block out the sound even as he yearned to know what they were saying beyond the odd word, but John wouldn’t appreciate him eavesdropping on the conversation. Sherlock sequestered himself in the kitchen with the doors shut until John stamped down the stairs and pulled them open. He stopped mid-step, startled by Sherlock standing there staring at him, an angry flush covering his features, body as tense as Sherlock had ever seen it. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, knowing perfectly well the answer was no, but giving John an opening to his attention if he needed it. 

John’s mouth tightened and he strode past Sherlock to grab the kettle from the counter and fill it with water.

“I’m fine,” he said, strained voice belying his words. “You just concentrate on the case, okay? Catching a murderer comes first.”

Sherlock squeezed his shoulders from behind, wishing that he could ignore the siren call of the files sitting on the table in the other room and comfort John when he needed it, but having his attention split like this between the two things he cared about most was agony. Just a few more hours and he could have this case wrapped up and out of his system. Then he could focus exclusively on John and his needs.

“I’ll finish as quickly as I can,” he said before returning to the sitting room, shoving down all emotional turmoil deep inside and opening his mind exclusively to the case before him. 

Thankfully, he was able to keep his promise. At 1:12 the next afternoon at St. Barts, he got the result he had been expecting from the soil samples confirming the murderer’s identity. Crowing with triumph, he texted the results to Lestrade and ordered him to arrest the man. Yet the instant that he put on his coat and scarf to leave, the pleasure of his victory withered like snow under the melting sun and his thoughts flew to John, who had remained at home, sleeping off having to be Sherlock’s sounding board until 3 that morning. Normally, Sherlock would have dragged him along regardless, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to deny John a few more, stress-free hours of sleep, not after the day he’d had. 

Sherlock rushed home, gripping his phone in his hands for the whole cab ride, fingers itching to press the correct sequence of keys to call John, but if he was still asleep Sherlock didn’t want to disturb him. It was highly unlikely that John remained abed at this late hour, but best not risk it. To distract himself, he texted Lestrade. Normally, he didn’t respond to Lestrade’s reply of acknowledgment when Sherlock messaged him the solution to a case unless he needed to add something, but this time he asked,

_Have the press calmed down at all? Do you know?_

_You’re no longer a headline, but not really. Solving the case will keep you on the radar, too. But they will move on to the next thing soon enough._

_Will they? John will continue to publish his blog and the press will continue to lie about us. I don’t like it._

_The lie or the blog?_

_The lie. John and I are not who they say we are and I don’t like it._

_You could always make some sort of statement about it. Say your piece._

_Would they listen?_

_Maybe. It’s worth a shot._

Sherlock found John in Mrs. Hudson’s flat munching on a plate of rashers, egg, tomato, and toast, which Mrs. Hudson provided far more readily than she was willing to admit among her protestations of not being their housekeeper. Both of them looked up expectantly when Sherlock entered. John looked a bit worse for wear, eyes red from the uneven sleep, but alert, at least.

“Are you all finished up, then?” Mrs. Hudson asked, having learned to read when a case was solved from Sherlock’s expression. He had been quite proud of her when she first began doing it. 

“I have,” Sherlock said.

John sagged in relief. Sherlock couldn’t tell whether he was more glad that a murderer had been arrested or that Sherlock was now fully available to him. 

“Oh, good,” John said, swallowing quickly. “It was the teller, then?”

“It was.” Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson. “Mrs. Hudson, I hate to kick you out of your own kitchen, but could I have a word with John alone, please?”

“Oh, no,” John protested, embarrassed by Sherlock’s request. “I can take the plate upstairs.”

“Don’t trouble yourself over it,” Mrs. Hudson said, already getting up. “I have some laundry I best be getting on with. You two talk for as long as you like.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock told her.

She smiled fondly at him before stepping out into her sitting room. 

“So what’s this about?” John asked as Sherlock pulled up a chair to sit at the head of the table next to him. 

“How are you?” Sherlock asked, peering closely at his face. 

John’s gaze lowered and he rubbed his forehead, his weary breath whistling through his nose.

“I’m fine. Just a bit tired.”

“You’re not fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to show you proper attention yesterday, but I’m fully engaged now. I’m not taking any more cases until what's happening is resolved.”

John huffed out a mirthless laugh, looking down at his plate with troubled resignation. 

“Well, you might be waiting a long time. This thing with me and Harry has dragged on for years if that’s what you’re concerned about. The press may have incited our row yesterday, but it hardly needed much kindling.”

They had never discussed John’s relationship with his sister apart from a couple of brief moments in conversation, it hardly being John’s favorite subject. Sherlock had initially sought to understand their relationship based on his own animosity with Mycroft, but the comparison instantly fell short, as he and his sibling, as recalcitrant as they were were to get along in a way that mummy wished, still worked off a foundation of mutual understanding. Sherlock might resent depending on Mycroft for anything, but he did trust him to be there if he needed him, whereas John and Harry appeared to be completely out of sync. 

“How about your other family?” Sherlock asked, moving on from Harry for now. 

John idly poked at a rasher in his plate.

“It took a lot of explaining. I don’t think mum understands still, not completely. Random cousins whom I haven’t spoken to in ages are coming out of the woodwork just because I’m now tied to a celebrity.”

“I never wanted to a be a celebrity,” Sherlock grumbled, instantly regretting it when guilt flashed on John’s face. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he added quickly. “I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault.”

“I really didn’t think it would take off the way it has.” John lowered his fork, considering for a moment. “If you want me to stop writing the blog—”

“No. You enjoy it and you’re right. That’s where our clients come from. It’s been nice not having to depend exclusively on Lestrade to bring me cases. And the damage is already done. There’s no point in you stopping now.”

John graced him with a grateful smile.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I really do like it. I don’t want to stop, but if it was going to be a problem, I wanted to offer.”

Sherlock smiled back reassuringly, then looked down at John’s plate, which he had barely touched since Sherlock came in.

“You should keep eating,” he said.

John chuckled.

“That’s novel. You telling me to eat for a change.” He cut up a piece of egg and put it in his mouth. “Have you eaten, by the way?” he asked after a moment. 

“I’ll grab some chips from around the corner.”

“More than that.”

“Fine. Some fish, too.”

“Good man.”

John looked a bit better now that Sherlock had derailed his attention away from the mess they were in. But as much as he would love to keep it that way, their discussion was far from concluded, so it was with a heavy breath that Sherlock asked,

“Does it still bother you that people are saying we’re gay?”

John squeezed his lips as he chewed on a piece of toast, and he shook his head despairingly.

“I’ve given up on it. People are going to come to whatever conclusions they please no matter what we or anyone else has to say about it.”

“So you don’t wish to make any sort of public statement to set the record straight?”

John narrowed his eyes at him questioningly. 

“Do you?”

Sherlock’s fingers shifted restlessly in his lap, moving his arm enough for John to notice. 

“This is bothering you, isn’t it?” John said, surprised. “I hadn’t realized.”

“It occurred to me… I never thought it mattered at all, what people we don’t know think of us or what our relationship is, but it feels like a step backward from announcing what we truly are to each other to the Met, to then allowing the world at large to make up whatever their puny, little minds think makes for a better story. That one good comment we ran across, the one that said we’re probably ace. It’s inaccurate in your case, but at least it got it half right. If people are going to gossip about us, at least some of them should be getting it right, and I don’t feel like keeping my mouth shut about it.”

John stared at him for a second, then grinned in grim satisfaction.

“You know what? I one hundred percent agree.”

Sherlock smiled back.

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. When you put it like that… Yes, we’re doing this. I’m pissed off and I have things to say. Just let me finish this and I’ll write something up.”

John stuffed his mouth full of eggs, which bulged his cheeks like a squirrel, the sight so ridiculous that it made Sherlock smile even more. 

````````````````````````

_So far, I have kept the more personal aspects of my life out of this blog, since they aren’t relevant to the cases and I prefer to keep them private. However, certain articles have hit the press the last couple of days about my relationship with Sherlock, leading to a flurry of speculation, most of it completely wrong. This has been irksome in the extreme, so I’m making an exemption today and explaining exactly what kind of relationship I am lucky to share with Sherlock Holmes._

_We are queerplatonic partners. Sherlock has authorized me to say that he is aromantic and asexual. I identify as straight. We aren’t secretly gay or in the closet, nor are we a couple. Our connection is platonic, like the word says. Nor are we simply best friends with some special title. It is a committed relationship based on mutual care and affection, as well as responsibility. Sherlock is my partner. Not only do we live and work together, but we share our lives with each other. A few articles cast doubt on the platonic nature of our relationship because we have been seen holding hands. While the rest of the world insists on coding touches like this as exclusively romantic, I assure you, it doesn’t mean anything more or less than what the participants intend it to mean. There are plenty of aromantic blogs online that will tell you the same. Look them up. In our case, there’s nothing romantic about it, so we would really appreciate it if you would stop saying that it is._

_Please don’t bother asking for details on what we may or may not do with each other, because we won’t reply._

_Press inquiries will also go unanswered._

John had a few choice words that he wished to add for the press, but they were a bit too impolite for the general tone of his blog. Best to keep his disapproval of their scandal-mongering short and simple. Truthfully, it was both John and Sherlock’s disapproval, for they composed the entry in unison, even though it was ostensibly only in John’s point of view. Sherlock was a bit surprised that John chose not to specify that he was open to dating, but that was more detail than he wanted to go into. Sherlock didn’t press the issue, but he did study John’s face for as long as he dared without John growing suspicious, not that he got much out of it. If any hidden emotions lied within, they were masked by John’s general air of indignation. 

John had gone on two dates since they became partners. The first case occurred nineteen days in, and the second ten days after that. Only in the first instance did Sherlock have to suffer a night alone, the second date proving so thoroughly incompatible that John returned early, thank God. In both cases, Sherlock grabbed his secret cigarette stash and ducked his head out of his bedroom window into cool, night breeze so that his room wouldn’t become impregnated with the scent of smoke, yet the cigarette remained dangling between his lips, unlit. He’d scrapped at the lighter with a jerky thumb, triggering a flame only to put it out in the next instant, and on and on he went, imagining John’s disappointed expression and head shake if he were to catch Sherlock in this position, as well as the questions. 

_Why now, Sherlock? Is it because you’re alone? Because I’m on a date? You said you were fine with me dating. Are you not anymore? Was it a lie from the beginning, a concession to get me to agree to this partnership?_

The first time, Sherlock had yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and thrown it on the floor, slapping on two nicotine patches, instead, before grabbing his violin and fleeing into a vehement rendition of Mozart’s Requiem. He refused to consider the implications of his subconscious choice of music. 

The second time, he had given in, scorching the end of his cigarette and sucking in a glorious puff of nicotine charged smoke, closing his eyes in heavenly relief as he blew it out into the forgiving night. He’d had to hop in the shower to remove the offending scent of smoke and suffered a mild pang of guilt when John asked him what he’d been up to, but damn, had it been worth it. Yet the momentary elation of indulging in his illicit vice had paled in comparison to the joy of hearing John’s familiar footstep climbing up the stairs and seeing him appear on the threshold. Sherlock had fought the unbearable urge to jump up from his chair the instant that he heard him, afraid that he might appear too eager for someone who was ostensibly alright with John going on his little dates. So he remained seated, and with minimum foot jiggling, although his right hand tapped furiously at the armrest in delight. When John pushed the door open, Sherlock forced himself still, adopting a concerned and surprised expression at John’s unexpected arrival. 

“No good?” he asked, voice suitably casual and not at all relieved that John hadn’t abandoned him for another night for the bed of someone who might one day call herself Mrs. Watson. 

John shook his head, tiredly placing his jacket on the coat rack. 

“We ran out of things to talk about halfway through dinner,” he said. “It was unbearably awkward, honestly.”

Sherlock had stood up then and placed his hands on John’s shoulders, massaging away the tension sitting there. John had hummed gratefully, eyes sliding shut as he leaned onto Sherlock. 

Sherlock did the same now, only this time standing behind John as he sat at the table looking over the post for typos before hitting Submit on the blog form. John leaned into him as he had then, easing into the firm press of Sherlock’s fingers on his shoulders and neck. If only he could be satisfied with simple touches like this, and not be compelled to seek out what Sherlock couldn’t give him. Sherlock should tell him, shouldn’t he? That he wasn’t satisfied with their arrangement. They had promised to keep an open channel of communication, no matter how uncomfortable or difficult it might be to express their needs, and yet Sherlock kept his mouth shut and indulged in relief that John had chosen to ignore his comment and leave out his dating life from the post. As it stood, the assumption from its wording strongly implied that they did not have an open relationship, so anyone in the know was unlikely to ask John out on a date. It was even likely that anyone that John asked might think that John was cheating on him, which could raise complications. And yet Sherlock pointed out none of this. 

Was it possible that John had decided not to date at the moment? If so, wouldn’t he tell Sherlock? Then again, Sherlock himself was breaking the open communication rule. Why not John? But that potential decision made little sense. It had always been so important to him, and the last date had merely been two and a half weeks ago. Unsuccessful, granted, but a serial dater like John didn’t merely stop because of one dull date. 

“It’s up,” John announced, gazing at the posted entry as he sucked in a long, deep breath. “The questions we specifically said we wouldn’t reply to should be arriving any moment now.”

“Easy enough to ignore. While we wait, what would you like to do the rest of the day?”

John smiled up at him. 

“You really are leaving it all up to me? You never do that.”

“I’m all yours today. I told you.”

“So, we can walk aimlessly around town?”

“Sure.”

“Watch The Great British Bake-Off?”

“Of course.”

“Go to Pub Quiz tonight?”

Sherlock frowned. John was testing him. He knew perfectly well Sherlock’s disdain for such useless trivia. 

“If you want,” he said, conciliatory.

John chuckled, patting Sherlock’s right arm.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to make you go to quiz night. You’d probably get us kicked out and banned, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

Sherlock’s phone chimed. That would be Mycroft. In his usual, overbearing style, he got an alert every time that John posted a new entry on his blog. Sherlock pulled out his phone and opened the message.

_Touching declaration. I had wondered if you would be addressing the press directly._

_I didn’t care for their tone. Aren’t you going to express surprise at John having written it?_

“What did he say about it?” John asked. 

“He called it touching.”

John looked down at the table pensively.

“Hmm, well, that’s good.”

Sherlock frowned at him

“What’s good?”

“That he liked it.”

A new message came in. 

_Please, we both know you had a large part in it. John is too inhibited to have come up with that part about care and affection by himself._

Sherlock scowled at the message.

“What did he say now?” John asked dubiously.

“He’s just being obnoxious, like always.”

_He did write that sentence._

Well, Sherlock had added the “affection” part, but just because John was so typically hopeless at expressing softer emotions didn’t mean that he didn’t let Sherlock know in other ways. Actions spoke louder than words, after all. 

“Is he still not sure about me?” John asked, frowning in that upset, peeved manner that Sherlock didn’t like. “It’s been two months. How much longer does he need to stop worrying that I’m going to leave you?”

_I stand corrected_ , Mycroft messaged. _You do know that I am happy to see your relationship progressing so well. Do send John my best._

“He sends his best,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s shoulder. “You’re fine. He’s not about to kidnap you and make you sign a contract in blood pledging yourself to me.”

“I bloody well wouldn’t put it past him,” John muttered, frowning down at the table, much tenser than it had been a moment ago. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, disconcerted worry stabbing at his stomach. Why was this bothering John so much? He never let Mycroft get to him like this, even when their relationship had been new and uncertain. 

“There’s no need to worry about him.” Sherlock put down the phone and half sat on the table, picking up John’s hand from his lap and holding it in both of his, rubbing gently at his fingers in an attempt to soothe that alarming apprehension behind his eyes. “He’s been annoyingly overprotective since I was a child. His opinion of you and our relationship is irrelevant.”

“He’s Mycroft. Your brother.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further. 

“Is this about Harry?” 

John looked up, startled.

“What? No.” He glanced to the side. “Maybe a bit. I just… I don’t want… I want this to go as smoothly as possible. And it has, hasn’t it? Well, except for me being stupid for a bit before we told Lestrade and the others. And then this whole media mess. I just don’t want any more complications. We have enough of those as it is. I don’t want us to have to be fighting every step of the way. Which isn’t really realistic, given the circumstances, but… You know, I saw this with Harry when she came out, but I was on the outside then. It’s really completely different being on this side of things. Not that it’s the same, and I’m not the one who’s actually coming out. I don’t think I can say that.”

“I don’t mind you thinking of it that way. You are admitting to being in a non-traditional relationship. But you might want to keep that terminology between us. It might bother someone else.”

John nodded.

“Right. I think…” He rubbed his eyes, sighing. “I have a lot on my mind. It’s been a lot the last couple of days.” He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers before standing up. “Let’s go for that walk. No, wait. You still need to eat properly. Fish and chips, then a walk?”

Sherlock had snacked on toast and jam as they composed the post, but his stomach, awake once more now that the case was over, was protesting the lack of proper nourishment. So he indulged John’s obvious brush-off of the important matter at hand and allowed him to lead him outside without another word about it, even as he dreaded what the potential fallout of it might be.


	7. Chapter 7

“Mum invited you to her birthday party.”

John’s revelation came some minutes into their walk in Hyde Park, which they’d escaped to after turning too many heads in the city streets for what was supposed to be a relaxing endeavour. 

“You didn’t tell me she’s having a birthday party,” Sherlock said.

A wry smile jerked on John’s lips.

“She wasn’t. It’s an excuse to get to meet you in a way that’s hard for us to wriggle out of. It’s in three weeks, rather short notice, but she mentioned that Harry can come.”

“You think it was Harry’s idea?”

John sighed despairingly. 

“Oh, who knows. It could have been either of them. And I have spoken to your parents, so it’s not entirely unfair.”

“On the phone, not in person.”

John stopped mid-stride and turned to Sherlock, placing his hand on his right, upper arm.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, gaze firm and earnest. “I’m not going to make you do it if you don’t want. I mean, it’d be weird if you don’t meet eventually, but this is really sudden and it’s still early.”

Sherlock studied John’ss face, weighing his exhaustion and frustration, trying to deduce his true wishes beneath his duty to Sherlock’s wellbeing.

“Do you want me to go?” Sherlock asked. “I don’t mind.”

John’s brows rose a fraction.

“Oh. You sure?”

“Yes. Like you said, we should meet eventually, and I wish to spare you your mother’s recriminations if I don’t go. Besides, they are your family. I am… curious.”

A soft smile appeared on John’s face. Excellent. Sherlock had deduced correctly.

“Okay,” John said. “We’ll both go then. But I am going to establish certain ground rules.”

“I’ll do my utmost not to insult anyone.”

John snorted.

“Thank you. I would hope not. But I meant my family, too. No demanding deductions. I know that annoys you.”

“No asking about my own family would be ideal.”

John winced a bit as they resumed their walk.

“I’m pretty sure mum’s going to ignore that one. You should lie if she asks what Mycroft does for a living.”

“His official position is a lie, so that won’t be difficult.”

John breathed softly, looking mildly amazed as he gazed out in front of them.

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

John shook his head at himself.

“You’re going to meet my family. I’ve pictured it, but now it’s actually going to happen. And we just announced our relationship, officially, on my blog. It’s been quite the couple of days.”

A smile tugged on Sherlock’s face. 

“That it has.”

And they weren’t even done. As they walked, they ignored a significant amount of texts, calls, and comments, the incessant din of notifications from their phones so persistent that they had been tempted to put their phones on silent, only they hadn’t wished to risk missing something genuinely important. Only when they returned home did they review the long lists of notifications. All press calls were ignored (you’d think that the vultures would have learned by now), as were the questions in the comments of the blog from people with selective reading deficiency. The comments themselves thankfully tended towards the positive, yet the moment that they googled themselves, there came the hate on social media. Twitter, as always, proved to be a discourse plagued hellscape with every pillock who didn’t “believe” in asexuality feeling the need to expose their pathetic ignorance to the world. Sherlock and John made use of the Block feature far more than they ever had before.

Yet it was not all frustration. The good comments were surprisingly uplifting. Fellow aros and aces expressed joy at having such a public figure in their community, and united his name with the hashtag #oneofus. He was even trending, if only in the fifth spot. Being any sort of celebrity was still profoundly irritating, yet seeing comments like “Victory for aroace visibility!” and “Genius detective is ace? Fuck yeah!” did give him a funny, gratified feeling in his belly. 

It wouldn’t have taken Mycroft not so subtly leaving an open book on his desk during his latter university years to figure out his orientation if only there had been some information out there. For all of his reading, he had never come across that book before, nor the forum whose URL Mycroft wrote on a piece of paper which he stuck between the book’s pages. All of Sherlock’s deductive powers were for naught if he didn’t stop to consider what he wasn’t even aware could be considered, as obvious as it was in hindsight. He’d felt much like the subjects of his quick deductions, embarrassed at how simply he’d picked up on details of their life from their appearance, seeing but not observing. He had fretted for years at a perceived lack, at yet another point of dissonance between himself and his fellow students, wondering if something might be awry in his mind instead of perceiving that these feelings everyone else spoke of weren’t compatible with him in the first place. He didn’t lack anything. He merely experienced the world differently. 

“You’re pleased,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s left ankle.

They had settled on the sofa when they arrived, John sitting at one end while Sherlock stretched out and draped his bare feet in his lap, both checking the comments on their respective phones. Sherlock grinned into his screen.

“Oh, yes,” he purred, tapping the heart button on the happy tweet in front of him. Normally, he didn’t bother liking other people’s tweets, but he felt inspired to reply in some way to the few intelligent people online. “Berks aside, of course.”

John’s jaw clenched.

“Of course. They’ve called us every name under the sun by now. But the good comments are refreshing.” 

John rubbed delightful circles on the top of Sherlock’s foot. Sherlock leaned into the touch, wiggling his toes in contentment.

“That they are.”

Sherlock stared at the tweet in front of him, which thanked him for coming out. He chewed thoughtfully on his inner lip. 

“I’ve been liking the good tweets,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Should I also post some sort of acknowledgment separately? Like a thank you?”

“If you want, sure.” John smiled softly at him. “This has been good for you. I can tell.”

“I did admit to being pleased.”

“Yes, but there’s also this… I don’t want to say glow, but… I can see when you read a nice post because you get this look on your face. Sometimes there’s a little smile. You look touched. And recognized.”

“Like I’m among fellows,” Sherlock murmured after a moment, looking back down to the phone. 

“Yeah. I like seeing that look on you. It’s not common.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I don’t need anyone else’s recognition, John. Just yours.”

“But you are happy.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose. 

“Yes, alright. It is nice to have some people be glad that I don’t fit into this ridiculous definition of normal, for once. Especially people who don’t fit it themselves.”

Sherlock pressed the New Post button. He paused, thumbs ready over the keys, then held the phone out to John.

“You fill in something,” he said. “You’re much better at this than me.”

John frowned at the phone.

“No. It’s your message. You should do it.”

“I’m rude and inconsiderate. I’ll mess it up, and I don’t want to offend anyone.”

“You’ll do fine. You can pretend to be polite perfectly well when you want to. Just channel that.”

Sherlock retracted the phone with a huff.

“Fine.”

He began to type, stopped, then resumed.

_To those who have been courteous about our announcement, thank you. It is appreciated._

He posted it, then immediately opened another post window and typed a second tweet.

_To those who haven’t been courteous, fuck off._

John snorted as he received the alert for the new tweets.

“Well, I don’t mind you offending those people,” he said. 

Sherlock grinned.

“Is the first one fine?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s great. See, you can do it when you mean it. I’m going to post a tweet, too.”

It popped up on Sherlock’s feed a few moments later.

_I second what my partner said. The haters can fuck off. The supportive messages, however, are very welcome. Thank you very much._

Sherlock grinned, still getting butterflies in his stomach whenever John referred to him as his partner, and pulled back his right leg to knead at John’s thigh with his toes in appreciation. John smiled back, tapping Sherlock’s foot. John’s phone chimed with a new text, immediately followed by John’s brow scrunching and his jaw tightening in annoyance before smoothing out into a more dubious expression.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Just Harry. Mum wants to know if we’re okay sharing a bed when we stay over. If that’s something we do.”

They had only done so once while on a case in Dorset because the hotel was out of rooms with two beds. It hadn’t been a problem. They had cuddled in bed a few times since then, but hadn’t slept through the night. Not for any particular reason. It simply hadn’t come up.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t, either.”

John typed on his phone, replying to the message, yet that unpleasant wrinkle in his brow remained even after he pressed Send.

“Is that all that Harry said?” Sherlock asked, feeling like he shouldn’t, but unable to restrain his tongue any longer. Something was bothering John, something he didn’t wish to reveal, and that concerned Sherlock in no small measure. John cast Sherlock a sideways glance, catching what Sherlock was on about.

“Yes. Look, I can see you’re worried, but Harry and I will figure it out. I just don’t… I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“That’s alright.”

Sherlock gently rubbed John’s leg. John stilled him by stroking his feet down to his ankles, movements soft, silently apologetic, as was the expression on his face as he turned to Sherlock.

“Do you mind if I spoon you for a bit?” he asked.

Sherlock sat up and scooched forward, giving John space to slip n behind him.

“Come on,” he said.

John lied on his side, back pressed against the sofa, placing his phone on the armrest above his head. As soon as he was in position, Sherlock lied down again and snuggled up onto him, appreciating the secure comfort of his body as John wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s torso. John pressed his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his soft breaths warming Sherlock’s skin through his shirt. Sherlock touched his hand, closing his fingers around it, giving it a firm squeeze. 

Sherlock raised his phone again, but looked at it without seeing it. John remained silent, their conversation finished for now. Sherlock frowned. Just what the hell was bothering John so much? Something about Harry, something she said, likely a thorn that had chaffed between them for a long time, yet it was clearly linked to the revelation of his relationship with Sherlock, so what was it? Why had John so suddenly sought an end to their discussion and the comfort of holding Sherlock full body, not satisfied with merely stroking his feet? Asking hadn’t helped, so what else could Sherlock do? 

He tapped his screen and continued to scroll through the feed.


	8. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little flashback and continuation of what followed after John returned home from his second, failed date.

“No good?” Sherlock asked, voice suitably casual and not at all relieved that John hadn’t abandoned him for the bed of someone who might one day call herself Mrs. Watson. 

John shook his head, placing his jacket on the coat rack. 

“We ran out of things to talk about halfway through dinner,” he said. “It was unbearably awkward, honestly.”

Sherlock stood up and placed his hands on John’s shoulders, massaging away the tension sitting there. John hummed gratefully, eyes sliding shut as he leaned onto Sherlock. His forehead fell atop Sherlock’s shoulder, arms wrapping around Sherlock’s waist, hands sliding up his back to grip him more tightly. It made the position a bit awkward for a shoulder massage, but Sherlock wasn’t about to protest. He shifted to rubbing John’s back and head instead, kneading along his weary muscles and brushing through the softness of his hair. 

“Keep doing that,” John mumbled.

Sherlock felt it as much as heard it, the needy warmth of John’s words grafting onto his skin through the thin layer of his shirt.

“With pleasure,” Sherlock said, sending out infinite gratitude towards John’s failed date for being such a dull person that John had come rushing into his arms like this. He took a chance and lowered his head, leaning his cheek atop John’s hair, breathing him in. John gripped him more tightly.

“Would you like to try something new?” John asked, shifting his head to the side.

“What?”

“Spooning. Would you like that?”

They had mentioned it as an option before, but John had been uncertain about it. How interesting that he wished to explore it now. 

“I would, yes,” Sherlock said. “My bed?”

“Alright.”

John stepped back, fingers tracing lingering touches on Sherlock’s torso before detaching and leading Sherlock to the bedroom. He pushed the door open and sat on the bed to remove his shoes. Sherlock thrilled with excitement at the sight. They’d never taken the step of moving from the sofa to a bed before. Sharing one in that trip to Dorset hardly counted, for they had merely used it for sleep, not for anything as intimate as this. A sudden uncertainty appeared in John’s eyes as he looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock’s enthusiasm dimmed a bit.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “You can change your mind.”

John smiled in reassurance.

“I’m sure.”

Perhaps it was just nerves. Every new activity was fraught with apprehension over whether they would derive mutual enjoyment from it. 

“Do you want to spoon me,” John asked, “or do you want me to spoon you?”

“You choose. You came up with the idea.”

“But you’ve never done this before. Is there one position you’re more curious to try first?”

“Not really. I’d love dearly to do both.”

“Okay, we’ll do both.” John lied down on the bed, facing outward. “How about you start spooning me first?”

Sherlock’s heart rate quickened as he circled the bed and climbed atop it, sliding his body down to align with John’s. His breath shortened as he pressed himself to him, John’s back to his chest, legs not quite fitting properly due to Sherlock’s larger stature, John’s head lying just below his eye line. He tucked his right arm between them atop the pillow as he hugged his left around John’s torso. He lied still, unsure whether he should speak or move, but spooning didn’t require movement, did it? They were supposed to simply lie here, still, soaking up each other’s presence. 

“Is this okay?” Sherlock asked. “Am I doing it right?”

“Yeah, this is good.” John touched Sherlock’s hand for a moment before resting his arm back in front of him. “How are you?”

“Great.” Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling John’s breath press against his chest and arm. “Really great.”

“Good.”

Was John still experiencing that uncertainty from before? Or had that tiny waver in his voice been relief? Should Sherlock ask, or would it be too precarious a question? Why now, why after a date, specifically a failed date? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Was John seeking physical contact after being frustrated in his attempt to have sex? John didn’t always have sex on a first date, but it was common enough. His last date had been little more than a hookup, as he’d never seen her again. Yet this spooning could be but a poor substitute to him, couldn’t it, even if it was infinitely superior in Sherlock’s opinion. Maybe John just wanted some compensation for the dullness of the evening with something new. Or maybe he had been secretly curious about spooning but was unsure about it, but his exhaustion now allowed him to simply give in. 

“Stop thinking so much,” John said. 

Sherlock frowned.

“I’m not. And that’s my line.”

“You are. You always are. I can practically hear you. This is nice. Just let it be nice.”

Sherlock sighed into John’s hair, clinging to John’s categorization of their cuddling as “nice”.

“It is nice.”

“Yeah. You know, I’ve never actually been held like this before.”

“No? You’ve always been the big spoon, huh?”

“Yes, and if this is leading to a joke about my height, you can save it.”

Sherlock grinned. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Yeah, right.”

Sherlock rubbed the back of his head soothingly.

“All I was going to say was, that if you wish for some variety, you always have me.” Always. “I’ll be your big spoon.”

John snorted softly.

“See?” he said. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Yet John sounded touched by the declaration despite his humor. They settled into a companionable silence after that, during which Sherlock managed to calm his thoughts somewhat. Yet not completely, not with John’s body nestled so comfortably against his, and the curious question of the timing still rattling inside his head. 

After a long while, Sherlock was about to ask John if he wanted to change positions when he felt the rhythm of John’s breath shift, inhales and exhales lengthening in unconscious repose. John had fallen asleep in his arms, this time fully aware and willing to be resting within said arms. A smile burst on Sherlock’s face as he closed his eyes, warmth thrumming through his body, mind finally able to drift away contentedly.


	9. Chapter 9

Through the next three weeks, they continued to be a social media sensation. The press, having had their fun, had moved on after a couple of days, thank God, yet Sherlock and John remained irritatingly popular. They had so many prospective clients that Mrs. Hudson had switched her habitual protest from “I’m not your housekeeper” to “I’m not your receptionist”, and most of the lot who showed up didn’t even have the decency to be halfway interesting. Their front door had practically become a revolving one with them kicking people out as soon as they came in. There came a point when Sherlock ordered Mrs. Hudson not to let in anyone else and he began vetting them from the sitting room window, dismissing most of them at a glance and only admitting the merest trickle, half of which got summarily sent off again in seconds. 

Four days before the party, Sherlock and John announced on their blogs that they would be unavailable for the next week, _so please do stop knocking at our door_. Predictably, plenty proved themselves either unable or unwilling to read, and haunted their doorstep anyway. John didn’t allow him to dump buckets of cold water on their heads through the window, although Sherlock had only been joking. Mostly joking. 

The first two of those days were taken up with the necessary preparations for the trip. One of these was packing Sherlock’s most suitable, casual, yet no so much that he gave the impression of not trying, clothes. Yet he also didn’t wish to appear to be trying too hard. Or so Sherlock attempted before John got fed up with him rifling through his closet and approving suits only to veto them later, and grabbed three suits and shirts, tossing them on the bed.

“That’s it,” John said, peeved tone brooking no argument. “This is what you’re wearing. End of discussion. You’ve been picking clothes for over an hour. It’s one weekend. Mum isn’t fussy. She isn’t going to be judging the turn of your collar or a stray wrinkle in your jacket.”

Be that as it may, Sherlock still ironed everything to perfection before packing it, and fully intended on ironing again at John’s mum’s house if he had to. He had no plans on making a bad impression with Mrs. Watson, not with his clothes, his gift (five skeins of hand-dyed cashmere yarn since she liked to knit), or his normally off-putting personality, which he would sweeten as much as he possibly could even if he had to put on an act for the entire weekend. 

In his desperation to ensure a successful trip, he had grilled John on his mum’s likes and dislikes and what would be the best subjects of conversation, as well as asked Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade for tips on how to impress in-laws. Unsurprisingly, the bulk of that advice had gone along the lines of being less like himself, albeit couched in much more delicate phrasing, as if he needed to be mollycoddled. John assured him that he didn’t need to put on any act, just restrain himself from blurting out the first thing that came into his head. Sherlock explained that to alter his behavior so would require acting, as it were, but was compelled to promise not to overdo it, which he didn’t mean to keep if circumstances required otherwise. 

The day before the trip, he did something quite uncharacteristic. He stopped by the Diogenes Club to see Mycroft. He strode into the lounge, caught Mycroft’s eye, and walked right back out to his office to wait for him, slapping a fresh nicotine patch on the inside of his left arm. 

“Nervous, I see,” Mycroft said as he entered, closing the door behind him. 

Sherlock didn’t have the energy to deny it. His unsolicited presence here was proof enough. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, yanking down his shirt sleeve. “I have no basis for this form of interaction save for rubbish advice and asinine movies, half of which depict a disastrous first encounter for comedic effect. It’s maddening.”

“Well, I suggest not taking the cigarettes in your pocket. John will be cross.”

“I only brought them today as backup. I’m doing the responsible thing, as you just saw. I‘m not taking them on the trip, as much as I want to. Too risky.”

Sherlock paced in a tight circle as he spoke, unable to stand still, alternating between looking out the window at the grey sky covered city beyond and the picture of the queen on the wall, anywhere but directly at Mycroft. Why had he come here, anyway? Mycroft certainly didn’t have any experience in this matter.

“What advice have they given you?” Mycroft asked. “John and Detective Lestrade, I presume?”

“And Mrs. Hudson.”

“Her husband’s parents were already dead when they met.”

“Granted, not the best to ask. Neither is Lestrade. His ex-mother-in-law took a while to warm up to him due to his profession. But I have no one else to resort to, so here we are. I was told to smile.” Sherlock accompanied this with a big, fake grin. “Actually think about what I’m saying before spitting it out. Not to insult anyone, as if I needed to be told that. I do know that rule of social interaction. I just don’t follow it.”

“That piece of advice isn’t rubbish.”

“No,” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly. “But it is going to be annoying.”

Mycroft snorted softly at that.

“You never did learn to fit in with people. It was bound to cost you one day.”

“You don’t fit in with people.”

“At least I don’t rattle off everything that comes into my head without considering the consequences. If it weren’t for me, Lord Melbury would have had you arrested.”

“Lord Melbury is an incompetent buffoon who needed to be cut down a peg.”

“On that we agree, but you ignore society’s rules at your own peril.”

“Well, luckily, it’s not society that I need concern myself with this time. Only John’s mum’s house. No one there is likely to get their nose twisted because I don’t care about the precise minutiae of their lineage.”

“No, but their egos are just as easily bruised, so you best follow the advice you were given.”

Sherlock grasped at the cigarette box in his pocket. The nicotine patch was supplying a most welcome buzz, but it was hardly enough to combat the nerves impeding his thought process. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice softened as he took a step forward. “I’m sure that John has told them what you’re like.”

Sherlock fingered the patch.

“Yes.”

“So they’re not expecting some perfectly polite, cheerful man who will always say the correct thing. They’re expecting you. Therefore, all you need to do to surpass these expectations and give a favorable one is not to insult anyone. And actually use the manners that you were taught. They’re in that head of yours. You use them when you need them, so I know you didn’t delete them. That’s all. There’s no need to overthink things or get yourself worked up. You’ll be fine.”

A sigh left Sherlock’s throat, weary yet hopefully clinging to Mycroft’s words.

“Will I? When am I ever fine in social situations?”

“Usually you’re not trying. This time you are. How often do you fail when you’re really trying?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

“Not often.” He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “Normally, you’re the one reminding me of those times.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully.

“Yes, but I’m in a different position today. This time, you’re coming to me for comfort, so I’m giving it. That also doesn’t happen often.”

“Let’s not make a habit of it,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft’s smile widened for a second. 

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

Marginally, but Sherlock’s muscles weren’t tensed as heavily as they had been when he came in. His feet were even managing to finally stand still.

“I believe I do,” he said, looking down at the desk for a moment. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. I am here for you if you ever need aid, you know.”

Great, they’d strayed into awkward touchy-feely territory. Sherlock shifted in place before yelling internally at his legs to stand still. The hell with it. He’d gotten what he came for. He could leave now. 

“Do let me know how your trip goes,’ Mycroft said.

He stepped to the side to let Sherlock pass, sensing that he wished to leave now. Sherlock felt a tad guilty about that. That was odd. Coming here at all was odd. Sherlock never came to Mycroft for reassurance. Not in years. And yet… It had been nice, as mad as that was.

“I will,” he said, meeting Mycroft’s eyes.

He gave Mycroft a small nod as he walked past, noting the pleased expression on his brother’s face.


	10. Chapter 10

The day of the trip dawned. The bags were packed. John made them sandwiches to eat on the train. Harry was aware of their arrival time to pick them up at the station. John and Harry had actually managed to reach a détente in their mysterious row, which Sherlock was still woefully ignorant about, to his utter consternation. All attempts to discover the nature of their disagreement had been met with John putting up a wall and being distant and grumpy for the next hour, so Sherlock had backed off. Well, he’d find out soon enough once the two were face to face and no longer had phones to hide behind. 

Unfortunately, neither would Sherlock. John’s mum didn’t appreciate it when people buried their faces in a screen in the midst of a conversation, so he had been instructed to keep it in his pocket while with her. The ordeals he suffered in order to make a good impression. How did ordinary people stand it? It was bad enough that they were obliged to stay over at her house instead of a hotel, which would have provided a nice respite from the going ons. As it stood, there would be no escape save for fleeing to their room or going for a walk. As long as he didn’t make it look like he was hiding, of course. Wouldn’t want to give a truthful impression. 

The only good part of arriving the day before the party was being able to accustom himself to the surroundings before John’s entire family descended upon them like a cloud of ravenous locusts. For every single person who had been invited was going. Cousins who John hadn’t seen in years would be forcing them into small talk and who knew what other social tortures. Sherlock felt rather like a show dog, but he didn’t wish to complain to John. It was hardly his fault, and Sherlock didn’t want him to think that he blamed him. 

The train ride was only an hour and a half. Technically, they, or at least Sherlock, could have come and gone to the party the day of, but such an arrangement was unacceptable. 

“I know this is hard,” John had said. “And not at all how I’d like to have done it. But you did agree. You even insisted. Partners visit family together, not piecemeal. It’s not like you have a case on to excuse you. Don’t you dare look for a case, Sherlock.”

John added the last in a vehement tone that promised dire consequences if Sherlock dared to lift the self-imposed ban on cases for the week. That killed that fledging bit of hope. 

They sat across from each other on the train, as per usual, both next to the window, John reading a novel while Sherlock sucked up as much mobile time as he could get before his wretched moratorium commenced. Yet no amount of scrolling through Twitter and the latest crime reports could distract him from the trial that drew ever closer as the miles shrank, every hill and house they passed bringing them nearer to a meeting that would have repercussion for years to come. Sherlock and John had reassured each other multiple times that what their families thought of the other didn’t matter. That they would not interfere in their happiness. Yet, despite John’s row with Harry, he did very much care about having his family in his life, and very much wanted them to like Sherlock. He hadn’t admitted to this out loud, but his nervousness over the trip was as apparent as Sherlock’s own. He had coaxed Lestrade into going to the pub three times this last week alone, when usually it was only once, although he did at least restrain himself from getting more than a little tipsy. Sherlock, in turn, had yet to raise a cigarette to his lips since John’s failed date, despite yearning for one so keenly that his lungs hurt. He had only just kept himself from secreting a stash in his suitcase, stuffing nicotine patches into a slipper, instead. 

Halfway through the trip, John put down his book and gazed out at the landscape pouring by, tiredness in his features, his right hand worrying at the pages of the closed book in his lap. Sherlock gently tapped his foot with his own, silently inquiring, “Alright?” when John looked up.

John nodded, murmuring, “Yeah. I just want to get it over with.”

Sherlock couldn’t agree, but there was no sense in mentioning it. Instead, he stood up and sat next to John, placing his hand atop his. John turned it over, entwining their fingers, yet Sherlock didn’t feel the tension in his body ease. Had they been in private, Sherlock would have dropped his head onto John’s shoulder and held him to soothe him, but in public they restricted themselves to the merest touches, neither being fond of excessive PDA. 

“Should we refrain from holding hands while we’re there?” Sherlock asked.

John’s hand tightened on his for a second. 

“Don’t you dare. I need this. Besides, we shouldn’t change how we behave towards each other. The couples that will be there certainly won’t. Why should we be different just because we’re not technically one?”

“Good point. Alright.”

They stayed next to each other for the remainder of the ride, mostly in silence, both finding it harder to focus on their reading material the closer they got to their destination. At last, the conductor announced their stop. The train slowed its pace, the station growing in the horizon, a typical red brick building, the tracks passing outside of it. John jerked to attention as they came to a stop, peering at a figure sitting on a bench under the eaves. 

“That’s Harry,” he said, dread and resignation merging in his voice. 

Their carriage had stopped a bit too far away from her for Sherlock to get a good look, but the siblings’ resemblance was noticeable even from here. Her hair was the same hue as John’s, only longer, falling to just below her shoulders in a slight wave. Same height or very close, from what he could tell when she stood up to watch the train. Her clothes were casually stylish. An asymmetrically cut black leather jacket with a pink top, dark-wash skinny jeans, and black booties. Comfortable, yet concerned with representing herself well to the world, or more specifically, them. This was her own first impression, too, after all, a chance to either make peace with her brother or muck things up even further while meeting his partner. A man whom she must have heard a wild and likely intimidating range of things about. The anxious way that she craned her neck around to the train doors and shifted her right foot indicated nervousness despite the unconvincing impassivity of her expression.

“You’re already deducing her, aren’t you?” John said, an amused smile on his face. 

“She has considerable tells, just like you. She’s as much of a nervous wreck as you are. That puts us on an even playing field.”

John shot Sherlock an affronted look.

“I’m not the wreck. You are, Mr. I need to stay up until 2 am making sure there isn’t a single crease in my clothes. I saw you practicing smiles in the mirror, too.”

Blast, when had John seen that? 

“I did not,” Sherlock mumbled, turning and grabbing their bags to hide the embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Come on. Best get it over it.”

“Quite right,” John said with no conviction whatsoever. 

John exited the carriage first, Sherlock close at his heels, and waved at Harry, who stepped forward upon seeing them, waving back. They shared hugs, hellos and how are yous, as enthusiastically as two people who loved each other but couldn’t figure out a proper rhythm could manage. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock could see that her boots had just been cleaned, the joints and hems of her jacket had the worn sheen of a comfort item that had been worn for years, and her hair was a tad disheveled from where she’d been running her hands through it in nervousness. She’d washed it this morning. A hint of dampness still clung to her scalp. Her eyes were clear, but just a bit red. Along with the slight haggardness of exhaustion, this signaled either sleep-deprivation or the effects of withdrawal from alcohol. Her latest attempt to wean herself off the bottle had begun a month ago, according to John. Recent, yet not so much so that she didn’t have some command over herself, despite the sorry state of her cuticles, mangled from constant fiddling. Although she had tried to sand them down to make them more presentable, but the lengths of her short nails were uneven, a rush job. Careless. Mind on something else. The drink. Whatever disagreement she had with John. Clara. A strip of skin on her left, ring finger was lighter than the rest of it. A tan line Yet no ring sat upon it. An old wedding band hastily removed so her family wouldn’t see her pining still. 

“Harry,” John said when they stepped back their hug. “This is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Harry.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Sherlock said, extending his right hand, the most sincere looking smile that he could muster on his face. Certainly, he was pleased to be cementing his relationship with John even further by meeting his family, yet he still would so much rather have done without this bout of awkwardness. Harry shook his hand, grip firm and confident.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” she said, assessing him with her gaze as sternly as he assessed her, though nowhere near as successfully, he was sure. “So this is the famous Sherlock Holmes.”

“Harry, please,” John said with a weary sigh. 

“Well, he is famous, isn’t he? You both are now.”

“People will move on soon enough.”

“One can only hope,” Sherlock added, perfectly honest this time.

“Not a fan of fame, are you then?” Harry asked him as she began to lead them to the car park, which lied just behind the station. 

“Not at all. This has all been rather inconvenient.”

Look at him chatting amiably like a normal person. Mycroft would be so proud. 

“I don’t think I’d like to be famous myself,” Harry said.

“I don’t recommend it,” John said. 

They continued their idle chatter, moving along to the expected moaning about how rainy it was and how bad traffic had gotten in London, and all the trivial things that everyone knew perfectly well and had no need to waste time with saying out loud when something intelligent or even silence would serve so much better. But Sherlock had a task to accomplish. To make a good impression. _Think of it like work_ , he told himself. Boring, mind-numbing work, but work. So as much as he’d love to let his mind drift off into more interesting thoughts, he had to pay attention and participate. At least their seating arrangements allowed Sherlock to disguise his lack of enthusiasm a tad. He sat in the back while John sat in front with his sister, carrying most of the conversation to spare Sherlock having to involve himself too much. Not that it could last. Of course not. The universe was never that merciful. 

“Mum has been going all out for the two of you,” Harry said, pronounced teasing in her voice. “She’s been baking treacle tart and Hobnob biscuits.”

Those were some of Sherlock’s favorite sweets. Until now, Sherlock had considered himself to be about to be scrutinized under a microscope, yet he and Harry weren’t the only ones looking to ingratiate themselves with the other. Unless John’s mum was just being friendly and waiting to see if Sherlock would respond in a suitably gracious manner. 

“There was no need for her to do that,” John said. “It’s her birthday party.”

Never mind that they all knew that this party was all about forcing her son to introduce her to this mysterious man he had been living with for the past year. 

“You know her,” Harry said. “It’s all about the guests.”

“I’ll be sure to convey my gratitude,” Sherlock said in what he hoped was a properly humble tone. 

“She is very curious about you. We all have been.”

“Well, we’ve been busy,” John said, unable to keep his tone completely clear of annoyance. “And we’re here now. So anything you’re curious about, now is your chance.”

“Within reason, of course,” Harry said, matching John’s tone, and alluding to John’s stipulated prohibitions. 

“Of course.”

Sherlock observed the interactions between the siblings with avid interest. They alternated between genuine pleasure at being in each other’s company to peeved annoyance, exploratory teasing, and stilted awkwardness. Often all at once. The whole time, Sherlock sensed the unspoken secret of their mysterious disagreement beneath their words and body language, that which they wouldn’t speak aloud with Sherlock in the car with them. Sherlock suspected that, if he weren’t there, a fight would have already broken out as neither would have been able to resist dredging it to the surface. He’d hoped that seeing them together would avail him of some clue as to its nature, but, to his utter consternation, he was unable to detect anything at all. What could it be, this thing that had dragged on since before John had joined Sherlock yet had been exacerbated by it?

“We’re here,” Harry announced.

Sherlock mentally shook himself. In his befuddlement, he had neglected to pay closer attention to their surroundings. They had entered a quiet, pleasant neighborhood, a newer development. John’s mum had moved after his father died, so there was no prospect of seeing his childhood home or staying in his old bed. Harry parked in the driveway of a two-story red brick house with a pretty front garden. After they got their bags from the trunk, the front door opened and an older woman stepped out. There she was. Mrs. Sylvia Watson, unmistakable in her physical resemblance to her children. John had inherited her eyes, cheekbones, and chin. She wore a simple house dress, light blue with white trim around the neckline. The fabric was wrinkled around her waist. Along with a dab of flour on her neckline, this suggested that they had interrupted her in the midst of baking. She smiled happily as John came up and hugged her.

“Hello, mum,” John said, smiling back. “How are you?”

“Much better now that you’re here. Have you been sleeping properly? You look tired.”

“Just the early train, that’s all.”

As they pulled away, she shot Sherlock a curious glance, waiting impatiently for her son to introduce them. John got right to it, touching Sherlock’s upper arm. Sherlock was glad for the contact, for a pesky rot of nerves had invaded his stomach and was running riot. 

“Mum, this is Sherlock.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Watson?” Sherlock asked, smiling and extending his hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you. John has spoken so highly of you.”

That sounded nice and polite, didn’t it, like a proper son-in-law? 

“Please call me Sylvia,” she said, shaking his hand. Firm, friendly grip. “I’m not one for formalities, especially not with my son’s partner. I confess, I was a bit confused at first, but I think I’ve got the gist of it now.”

“That’s alright. John needed some explaining as well.”

“Did he?” 

Sylvia narrowed her eyes curiously at John, who bristled defensively. Had he made it seem that he’d understood immediately, then? Sherlock hadn’t been around for that conversation.

“I got it soon enough,” John said. “We should get inside. Put the bags away.”

He sidestepped them and went in before anyone could raise objections. They were staying in a bedroom overlooking the rear garden, which had been decorated with an overwhelming amount of maritime illustrations and memorabilia. 

“Dad was into all things nautical,” John said by way of explanation. “These were all his.”

“He used to have these all over the old house,” Sylvia said, a bittersweet wistfulness shadowing her face. “I couldn’t bear to get rid of them.”

Sherlock examined a print of JMW Turner’s _The Fighting Temeraire_ on the wall opposite the bed, partly out of appreciation but also to give himself a tiny respite from the social niceties he was enmeshed in among the soothing blues and yellows of the seascape. 

“Shall we go downstairs, then?” John asked, sidling up beside Sherlock and gently touching his back. Sherlock met his eyes, reassuring him that he was alright, and John’s concerned frown faded. 

Further pleasantries were exchanged as Sylvia set the kettle on the stove to serve them a fresh round of tea. Sherlock made memory of every stock polite phrase and used them liberally, always pleasant, never inpatient, no matter how inane the small talk. John sat pressed to his side, knees rubbing together, so at least his physical contact provided a comforting anchor. The subject of Sherlock’s family came up fairly quickly. John had balked at making that condition earlier, as there was no possible way of explaining it without seeming suspicious or inciting unsavory implications in people’s minds. After all, it was a basic facet of in-laws getting to know each other. So Sherlock remained perfectly pleasant as he gave some basic information on Mycroft and his fictitious official position in the government. Unfortunately, Sylvia was particularly interested in him and his relationship with Sherlock, so that carried on for an annoying while until John changed the subject by asking his mum if she’d had any luck with this year’s batch of flowers. The transition was hardly smooth, as everyone noticed, but Sherlock couldn’t care less, for the nicotine in the patch on his arm had run out and the exhaustion and nervous energy ratcheted up his system with every moment that the friendly socializing continued. 

It had been years since he’d been subjected to this. Putting on an amiable mask to score a piece of evidence or witness testimony in a case was a much different endeavor, for the thrill of the game thrummed through his veins, lifting him up in an incandescent glow of joy and excitement. But sitting on a sofa, cup of tea in his hand, no case afoot, meeting in-laws for the first time, being weighed and judged for every word he spoke and every action he made by people whose opinion actually mattered was agonizing. He’d never even had in-laws before. He wasn’t sure that he enjoyed the experience. 

To maintain his sanity, he dedicated every spare second to analyzing every scrap of information that he could glean from his surroundings. Not that he could do much with that, either. Focusing on socializing and not speaking his mind ate up so much energy that his brain was barely functioning at full capacity. The house was comfortable, but not ostentatious. Matching furniture sets, only a few years old. Sylvia may have kept her late husband’s nautical items, but didn’t want to keep the old furniture that she had shared with him. A few of the items in the sitting room were transplants from the old house, but most were not. Keeping the past alive, but not too much to overwhelm as she turned a new leaf. She was friendly and open with Sherlock, not bluntly teasing like Harry, but still trying as hard as she could to suss him out. She was pleasantly surprised so far. Harry also looked secretly surprised. Sherlock’s demeanor wasn’t matching the cold, rude attitude they had been expecting. Sherlock’s tribulations were not in vain. 

After a suitable amount of time of dutifully pretending to be fascinated by his mum’s gardening adventures, John touched Sherlock’s shoulder and stood up, saying,

“Well, um, we’re a bit tired, mum, so we’re just going to go upstairs and get settled.”

“Of course, dear,” Sylvia said. “You should have said so earlier. Are you sure the two of you aren’t hungry? I can warm you up some soup.”

“We’re alright, really. We’ll be down in a bit.”

“Yes, thank you, Sylvia,” Sherlock said with a last burst of energy as they exited the room. “I look forward to those biscuits.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand on the way up the stairs, his left shaking at his side as he finally allowed the polite mask to drop and he forced his legs not to take the steps two at a time lest they were heard. As soon as they entered the bedroom, he let go of John to collapse on the bed, breathing heavily into his hands before dropping them on the mattress and staringly blearily at the ceiling. God, he was exhausted. That had been too long. Too much. Too long. 

“I should have pulled you out earlier,” John said, guilt wearing at his tone. He sat down beside Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. I could have done it myself. I just didn’t.”

Sherlock yanked up his right sleeve and ripped off his nicotine patch, which had run out bloody ages ago. 

“Patch,” he said, looking plaintively at John.

John got up and crouched down beside Sherlock’s suitcase, opening it on the floor. He returned soon with a fresh patch. Sherlock extended his arm for John to stick it on, which he did, pulling Sherlock’s hand into his lap and softly stroking his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, relieved as the touch and fresh burst of nicotine coursing through his system soothed the jagged edges of his fatigue.

“You don’t have to push yourself so hard, you know,” John said. “They’re not expecting some ideal, perfect man with impeccable manners. I have told them about you.”

“God, you sound like Mycroft. It’s unsettling.”

John frowned, the expression adorable like always. That helped a bit, even if Sherlock still felt that fighting an armed criminal would have been a better time. 

“That is unsettling. But I actually agree with him this time. You’re going to run yourself ragged before the party even starts. Hell, you’re already exhausted.

Sherlock huffed in exasperation, jiggling his feet.

“I’m trying to be polite. How else am I supposed to be polite?”

“Just…” John shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Can’t you just be polite while being a bit more like yourself?”

“John, I have two modes. Myself. Or this.” Sherlock put on his polite smile. “I can’t do this pleasant in between the rest of you can. It doesn’t work. You think I haven’t tried?”

John stared at him in surprise. 

“It’s not the sort of thing I would have thought you’d do. You’ve always been adamant about being exactly who you are.”

“Because I learned better. I don’t care if I annoy people anymore, but I want to make a good impression with your mother. I can’t do that while being myself.”

Understanding alighted in John’s eyes. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, stroking up his arm in a soothing motion that made Sherlock want to curl into his lap and not crawl out until the hellish weekend was over. 

“I get it,” John said softly. “But you’re not going to make it through the trip if you keep pushing yourself to this level. Look at you. We’ve barely been here an hour and you’re already shutting down. You may need to pull back a little. Yes, you do,” John added in his doctor voice as Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. “You want to be in this sorry state every time you interact with people?”

Sherlock scrunched his lips together. Why did John have to be so damn sensible all the time? 

“No,” he admitted after stalling a bit. 

“How about the future? This isn’t going to be the only time you see my family. You’re looking at a lot of years with that fake smile slapped on your face and you silently screaming.”

“Oh, God.”

Sherlock groaned into his hand and curling up on his side, facing John, pulling his knees up to his chest. He’d barely survived an hour. Endless years of having to pretend to be some counterfeit person every time that he interacted with a member of John’s family… He couldn’t do it. Not even for John. It was too much to bear. 

“Alright, fine,” he said, not caring how pouty he sounded. “I’ll try to be a bit more like myself. But only a bit. Just as a test.”

John nodded. 

“I’ll take that.”


	11. Chapter 11

The experiment proved lackluster, to say the least. During dinner, Sherlock was so befuddled about what to say and how to say it between faux politeness and his usual self that he was unbearably quiet for most of it. By the end of it, Sylvia was casting him concerned glances and trying to get him to engage by commenting on his cases. She and Harry must have thoroughly read John’s blog, yet he was obligated to recount some of the events in its entries, as reticence in answering a direct question would be rude. Yet he came out losing for it, as his voice developed its cold, analytical edge as he explained his analysis of the corpse they found in the boot last month, lacking all sympathy or kindness, which had no bearing upon solving a case. But no one else could grasp that, could they? Nor did he himself realize how off-putting he was being until after an off-hand comment about the death of the man’s baby the year before turning out to be completely irrelevant after seeming to bear vital importance. In hindsight, said observation might be interpreted as a bit callous. And so it was, given the shocked, pinched faces around the table and John’s long-suffering stiffness, followed swiftly by his foot connecting firmly with Sherlock’s own beneath the table. 

Noticing his mistake, Sherlock lowered his voice apologetically, saying.

“Of course, the child’s death was very tragic and regrettable. It simply didn’t contribute to discovering her father’s killer.”

“Sherlock forgets himself sometimes,” John said, tone light, showing that there was nothing to be concerned about a guest speaking so dismissively of an infant’s death. “It’s important that he focuses only on the details that matter in solving the case so he doesn’t get distracted. It sounds a little bare when he tells it, but that’s why.”

“Yes, that’s why.”

Sherlock made absolutely sure to modulate his voice and think of what he was going to say before it came out of his mouth from then on, just like he should have kept on doing. Of course he couldn’t be himself and come off looking well. Hadn’t he just bloody told John that? He’d been right, damn it all, and John knew it. Wasn’t that a shade of guilt in his eyes just now? Never mind. Sherlock didn’t have the mental energy to spare for deductions, not with a dinner to finish and in-laws to make nice with. 

“Would anyone be interested in hearing me play the violin after dinner?” he asked at one point. Blurted out, rather. He might have interrupted John, too frazzled to hit the appropriate conversational points when he needed to, but Sylvia was delighted and Harry intrigued by the proposition, so no harm done in this case. He had only brought his violin as a coping mechanism and hadn’t intended to perform for an audience, but his playing always induced people to think more kindly towards him. At least, until the next time he spoke, but that would not be a problem again. It couldn’t be. 

So, after dinner, he dutifully fetched his violin and played one of Mozart’s livelier compositions, to rousing applause. He bowed low when he finished the piece, an unusual move for him, but it seemed fitting for the occasion.

“That was wonderful,” Sylvia gushed with a delighted smile. 

“Very nice,” Harry said, looking equally impressed.

“Didn’t I tell you he was a great player?” John said, smiling at Sherlock with pride. It soothed some of the butterflies in Sherlock’s stomach, instilling some genuine emotion in his own smile.

“I would think you were a professional if I didn’t know better,” Harry said. “When did you learn how to play?”

“When I was six. My brother taught me.”

He would have preferred to leave Mycroft out of it, but feared that a single sentence might have come off as too curt.

“Is he as good as you, then?”

“No. My technique is far superior.”

He allowed himself to inject some dismissiveness into his tone, yet not so much as to sound unduly harsh, producing the intended effect of an amused chuckle.

“Well,” Sylvia said. “I’m sure he’s good, too. Have you heard him play, John?”

“I have not,” John said. “I don’t think he likes playing in front of other people.”

“He doesn’t,” Sherlock said. “Too reserved.”

Probably rusty, too. Skills eroded from lack of use. 

“Still,” Sylvia said, “It’s nice that the talent runs in the family.”

“And not just musical talent,” John said. “Did you know that Sherlock is related to Vernet, the French painter?”

A famous, artistic relative. Excellent segway. It moved them away from Mycroft and his questionable activities and put Sherlock in a good light. There was no repeat of Sherlock’s earlier blunder. He purchased more goodwill by playing two more pieces before excusing himself on the pretense of being exhausted from the trip. John remained with his family watching a movie. There was no need for him to miss out on their company for Sherlock’s sake, even if Sherlock wasn’t desperate for some quiet moments in peace. 

Once in the room, he grabbed his pyjamas, a dressing gown, and a towel from the cupboard and jumped in the shower. He stood under the warm spray, head down, letting the water pummel his head and back, washing away the stress and aggravation of the day. His hands clenched at his sides in arhythmical bursts of jittery energy. He had stayed too long again, but it would have been rude to come upstairs any earlier. And it hadn’t all been bad. John’s proud expression as he preened over Sherlock’s performance had been most welcome and wonderful. 

_That man playing the violin so beautifully? That’s my partner._

That’s what his smile had said. His partner. Sherlock had done his absolute best to make up for embarrassing John earlier with his horrid mistake, when he’d displayed the truth of his cold, unsympathetic self. It had worked, hadn’t it? The delighted applause and amiable conversation afterward had proved that. Sherlock needed to keep up the front for two more days. That was all. Just two days. Never mind worrying about the future. He didn’t have the energy for it. 

Two days. He had faced down Moriarty while he held a gun to John’s head. Sherlock could handle two damn days of cheerful socializing. This would work. It had to work. It would work. 

Sherlock went to bed early, but he stirred as John sank onto the mattress beside him. He turned his head to show his wakefulness. John touched his shoulder, rubbing softly with his thumb.

“You okay?” he asked in a low whisper.

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured. “Go to sleep.”

John curled his arm around Sherlock’s torso for a moment, then lowered it back to his side, but remained close enough behind him that Sherlock could feel his breath tickling his hair, a reassuring rhythm. The unfamiliar bed felt much more comforting with John’s presence at his back.

```````````````````````````

They lingered in bed the next morning, wrapped around each other, Sherlock’s face ducked into the hollow of John’s neck, nuzzling his skin with his nose, smiling at the recollection of John’s own nose stroking his own so enticingly back when this all began so many weeks ago. John carded his hands through Sherlock’s hair, grazing his scalp in languid strokes that made Sherlock hum in contentment. Sherlock’s stomach began to protest its emptiness at a certain point, but he ignored it. To eat, they would have to go downstairs, where Sylvia was already walking around in. Specifically in the kitchen, no less, if Sherlock’s orientation of the house was correct, and it was too early to put his polite mask on. Besides, John’s warmth was much more appealing than food, no matter how delicious Sylvia’s cooking had proven to be. 

“I can bring up breakfast,” John said after one too many stomach gurgles. “We don’t have to eat downstairs.”

“Wouldn’t that be rude?”

“Not with mum. It’s not like it’s dinner.”

“Still. She would rather have you downstairs.”

“Well… Yeah… But—”

Sherlock hugged John closer.

“I can eat downstairs. It’s fine.”

John’s chest rose and dipped beneath Sherlock with a pensive sigh. 

“Okay. Just as long as you’re comfortable.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“As comfortable as you can possibly be without straining yourself.”

“We don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

“No, but you’re not pushing yourself too hard, either. We already had that discussion, so I’m not going to repeat myself, but I will make you stick to it as far as I can.”

Sherlock exhaled an exasperated sigh.

“Fine.” As much as it pained him to do so, Sherlock detached himself from John and climbed off the bed. “But we’re still eating downstairs. I won’t be keeping your mother from her son.”

“You hardly see your own mother.”

“I’m not the son in question here.”

They ate downstairs, like good guests. Sylvia was already halfway done with her own breakfast, but she stayed with them all through theirs. Thankfully, she seemed to have satisfied her itch to learn as much about Sherlock as she could as quickly as possible, and engaged in a much more relaxed conversation with John, granting Sherlock the opportunity to eat his breakfast mostly unmolested. Harry was having a lie-in, and wouldn’t show her head until nearly noon, according to Sylvia’s much beleagered comment. Much the better. 

After the meal, John convinced Sherlock that it would be perfectly alright if he accompanied him for a walk in the surrounding countryside, and that there was no need for Sherlock to go on his own.

“Mum will be fine,” John said as he stubbornly followed Sherlock out of the house to the waiting cab. “We’ll only be gone an hour, alright? She’s not going to recriminate you for stealing me away.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Sherlock grumbled as he sat in the cab.

“Yes, you are. Now knock it off.”

John gave the cab driver the address to a local walking trail and they were off. Fine, then. Only an hour. He would have been perfectly alright on his own, and John hardly had much of a chance to see his mum being at Sherlock’s side all the time. _And who’s fault is that, Sherlock?_ John had been enjoying his time here, even with Harry, as much as they were clearly avoiding whatever thorn stung between them. Then again, he was showing signs of stress and a much yearned for need to unwind as he slouched in his seat, crossing his arms as he gazed out the window, his wrinkled brow and pursed lips relaxing as the distance between them and the house grew. 

“I didn’t realize you needed an outing as well,” Sherlock said, apologetic for not noticing the obvious. Harry had begun to stir shortly after Sherlock called for the cab, her footsteps resonating on the floorboards from her bedroom to the loo upstairs. Harry wouldn’t mention their mystery subject in front of Sherlock, but with him gone, she would have no compunction. 

“I just need to stretch my legs,” John said. “Get out of the house for a bit, same as you.”

 _And avoid your sister_ , Sherlock thought, but he’d learned better than now to say that part. John would only get huffy and refuse to tell Sherlock anyway, so there was no point. As much as Sherlock had counted on seeing the two siblings together to reveal the mystery, it seemed increasingly possible that he would go home without an explanation. Perhaps it was just as well. It was none of his business, after all, no matter how intensely his curiosity was eating him up inside. 

Therefore, as a good partner, he didn’t so much as hint at John’s reasons for needing to get away for the outing, which proved to be surprisingly pleasant despite the unanswered questions and itchiness of oversocializng burrowing under his skin. The tension never fully left John’s shoulders, which was worrisome, but it did lessen as they strolled along a dirt path at the edge of town. Hilly fields filled with sheep stretched out to their left while a slender patch of trees lined the path to their right, providing shade on this sunny day. Sherlock bemoaned not being able to use his coat as the temperatures had risen to much for it, but John preferred them, so Sherlock didn’t resent the mildness of the weather too much. John required relaxation as much as he did, for whatever nebulous reasons that might be, so he should be comfortable. They didn’t speak much as they ambled along the path, enjoying the soothing comfort of each other’s presence and the silent respite from the city’s relentless bustle. Granted, a couple of days of this and Sherlock would be shooting up the walls to create some noise and keep the unceasing quiet from driving him mad, but he could enjoy a brief interlude. The lack of family members to impress was also most welcome. He could actually think again, his head unclouded by the agonizing social requirements demanded of him, even if only for these few minutes.

It was with an internal sigh of resignation that Sherlock agreed to turn around on the path and return to the main road. John looked just as reluctant, which would normally have comforted Sherlock somewhat, but not this time. A sense of wrongness, of something being out of sync, pervaded his tense silence. Sherlock hated it. 

Sherlock was allowed to hide out in their room for a too short while after they returned, but before long he was obligated to help make dinner alongside John and Harry. As the person being celebrated, her children weren’t allowing Sylvia to have any part in the meal preparations. 

“It’s bad enough you did all that baking yesterday,” Harry said as she chopped up the onions. 

“It’s my birthday,” Sylvia grumbled from the corner she had been banished to. “I should be allowed to do whatever I want.”

“Actually,” John said. “Your birthday isn’t until Tuesday. You can do whatever you want then.”

If it had been his birthday party, Sherlock would much rather have been able to choose what he wanted to do rather than have the decision be taken out of his hands. But if he took Sylvia’s side, John might get it in his head to throw him a birthday party next year. He wouldn’t actually do it. John had far better sense than that, but the threat would be terrifying enough. 

The preparations took up most of the early afternoon, a ridiculously long time to make dinner, but the main purpose seemed to be the time spent together, not the meal itself. Sherlock was able to sneak away after helping set the table with the excuse of wishing to shower, and spent the next couple of hours lying in bed reading on his phone. John came in about an hour before the official start time and jumped into the shower. Sherlock got dressed while he did so and fixed his hair, which he regretted as soon as John returned, fresh and hair tousled, as he was seized by the sudden urge to hug him close and sink his face into his damp hair, which was sticking up from having the towel brushed through it. But he’d get his clothes wet and wrinkled and that would not do. He had to content himself with lowering his head to John’s shoulder and stroking his nose along his neck, sucking in the scent of freshly bathed skin. John chuckled as he continued to towel dry his hair. 

“We’ll have time for that later, I promise,” he said. 

“We better. I’m desperately going to need it after this.”

The party, like all parties, was frightfully dull, and made even more irritating by being fawned over and scrutinized like a show dog. Thankfully, the guests had the good sense of following John’s prohibition against asking for deductions, which he enforced with silent, yet unmistakably intense looks whenever it became apparent that someone was just itching to ask what Sherlock could deduce from the turn of their collar. Out of boredom, Sherlock did offer an observation or two, but found it more amusing this time to let his gobsmacked subjects stew in curiosity as to how he could have possibly known that they’d cycled in the rain last week and habitually snuck out of work for a scone at the café around the corner. 

He did let in John into his deductive process once they were alone to thank him for keeping his promise of not leaving Sherlock alone among these people. He stuck to Sherlock’s side at every moment, even following upstairs when Sherlock needed to go to the loo so he wouldn’t be cornered by some opportunist on the way back down. Harry made a comment about the two of them being stuck to each other with glue, which they ignored. John’s continued presence was the only thing that was making this night bearable, and only just. Every person here had read John’s blog. Was it truly necessary for them to go over the details of each case yet again? But that wasn’t what they really wanted. They were all just rubberneckers gawping at a car crash on the side of the motorway, exactly like their “fans” these past weeks, hungry for a clue as to Sherlock and John’s salaciously unusual relationship. 

To be fair, there were a few polite ones in the bunch. Not all of John’s relatives were annoying wastes of space. Thank god for small mercies. Yet Sherlock was very glad to see the backs of all of them as they slowly trickled off as the night came to a close. He felt like he should help pick up after, but John told him not to worry about it and nudged him up the stairs, squeezing his hand in reassurance before returning to the kitchen. Sherlock silently vowed to thank him thoroughly for it later as he rushed up the stairs and sequestered himself in their room, the crankiness of having socialized for too damn long irritating his spirt like a nasty rash. 

Yanking off his clothes, he pulled on his pajamas and collapsed in bed, pulling the covers over his head, phone gripped in his hand, and spent the next half hour scrolling aimlessly through social media to calm himself down. He’d never been so socially drained in his life, not even at school when he’d been forced to participate at social functions for the sake of his spiritual development or some such nonsense. He’d never actually cared to curb his worst impulses or the snippy comments that came into his head more than half-heartedly before. And he’d certainly never been pleasant and friendly and engaged for anything other than a case for this long with this many people. God, how did people stand it? He was exhausted and restless and cranky and moaning all at the same time, which made him even more tired, and he missed his flat, his bed, his things. His John. 

When was John coming upstairs? Surely it had been long enough to pick up a few dishes and wash them. 

An unbearably long time later, the door finally opened, admitting the much needed man in question. Sherlock jumped up at the sound, shoving down the blanket.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock said peevishly.

“There was a lot to do.”

“Get in bed and cuddle me.”

John’s eyes softened as he sat down on the mattress to remove his shoes.

“In a minute.”

Sherlock crouched behind him and clung to his back, burying his face in his neck.

“Now,” he demanded.

John pet his hands, which clutched his shirt.

“God, you’re the most demanding partner I’ve ever had.”

That brought Sherlock up short. Too demanding? He was often much worse than this, but what if it was too much? What if John preferred a less demanding woman to him? Sherlock settled back a little, relaxing his grip and tempering his voice into an uncharacteristically piteous,

“Please?”

John gripped hs right hand, stroking his wrist with his thumb.

“Give me a sec to change into my pyjamas, alright?” he said gently. “Then I won’t have to get up again later.”

That was reasonable.

Sherlock retreated when John finished removing his socks, and flopped back under the covers, waiting impatiently for John to change. As soon as the mattress dipped under John’s weight, Sherlock wrapped his left arm around him and pressed his face to his chest, inhaling the precious, comforting scent of John and the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. 

“It’s okay,” John said, holding him close and rubbing his back. “I’m here. The party is over.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock said with such vehemence that John snorted.

“Yes. Yes, thank God. You performed admirably, by the way. A bit more than I would have liked…” Sherlock ignored the soft reprimand in John’s voice. “But you dd good. Although I would have preferred if they didn’t think that I’m some petty exaggerator making you look bad in my blog.”

“Who cares what they think? My task was to be polite and not insult anyone. I accomplished this, yes?”

“Yeah, that you did.” John brushed his hands through Sherlock’s hair, kneading so nicely at his scalp. “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock awoke to an empty bed. He rolled over, seeking John with sleepy limbs even after he noticed the absence of John’s weight and breathing next to him. The mattress was cold. John had been gone for a while. Had he gotten too hungry to wait for Sherlock and gone down for breakfast? Perhaps. Although it was only 7:30, much too early for his sleep-loving John to be out and about of his own free will. What then had drawn him away from Sherlock at this horrid hour? Sherlock grabbed his phone. No messages from John. Sherlock drew himself up and on his feet, stretching his limbs as he ambled toward the window, lifting the curtain to squint at the much too cheerful world outside. 

Just in time to see John stepping into the tool shed out back and shutting the door. Curious. What was John doing in the shed? Had something in the house broken while they slept? But there was no need to close the door while searching for a tool. In fact, the daylight would provide much better illumination than whatever bulb hung inside, so why would John close it? Sherlock kept looking at the shed, tapping at the windowsill. As the seconds trickled by, the tapping increased into a restless noise so loud that he removed his fingers from the surface and jiggled them at his sides. 

Why wasn’t John coming out? Why was he in the shed? Was it what had gotten him out of bed so early? Had his mum asked him to do something? Had Harry? He couldn’t be getting something from inside the shed. He wouldn’t have shut the door to begin with if that was the case. So what? He needed the privacy. But for what reason? What didn’t he want Sherlock to see?

Turning on his heel, Sherlock pulled on his dressing gown and oxford shoes and slipped down the stairs, putting his mobile in his pocket. No one else was moving in the house. Sylvia’s and Harry’s bedroom doors were shut. They were probably still asleep. The back door let out straight onto dew-drenched grass. Sherlock pulled his gown a bit tighter around himself against the morning chill and headed straight for the shed, thankful for the sound absorbing properties of the turf. He wasn’t sure whether to knock or listen through the wooden walls to try to decipher what John was up to, but the choice was taken out of his hands by harried voices rising from within the shed. 

Harry and John. They were both in the shed, having a heated discussion. Sherlock’s feet continued pressing forward even as a little voice in the back of his head insisted that he shouldn’t intrude, until he was violently pulled short by John’s sudden exclamation.

“Alright, fine! I’m in love with him. There. I said it. Happy now? So I’m not straight. I feel things toward him that he most certainly doesn’t want me to. How is having that out in the open supposed to help anyone? It’s certainly not going to help Sherlock.”

Sherlock froze, mouth falling open in a breathless gasp, brain faltering in a sudden cascade of errors as he struggled to process what he’d just heard.

“It helps you,” Harry said. “It’s been eating you up inside. You’re right. It’s not my place to tell you what to do in your relationship, but this denial is not good for you. You know how it tore me up inside. You were there.”

“I know,” John’s voice lowered so much that Sherlock barely heard it. “But how can I tell him this? That it isn’t just platonic between us? That I fantasize about him at night? I can’t. I can’t do that to him.”

Sherlock's limbs jerked into motion, jittery legs rushing from the shed and back into the house, the doorknob slipping from his grasp as he shut it, slamming closed too loudly, the sound making him wince. He muddled his way through the house, almost running into Sylvia as she came down the stairs. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, barely able to do that much, gaze skittering everywhere but at her as he yearned desperately to leave the choking confines of the house. 

“Are you alright, dear?” she asked, worry in her tone.

“I’m fine,” he said, hurrying past her to the front door, using the last of his energy to mutter, “I just need some air.”

He ran out the front door before she could say anything else, not giving a damn that he was only in a dressing gown as he went to through the gate and off into the street, letting his legs carry him away from the house and John and his damned lies. 

He should have known. He should have fucking known. But he did know, didn’t he? John’s mysterious distress. His hesitation at the suggestion that he might have been attracted to a man before. His easy, eager acceptance and desire for Sherlock to touch him and hold him in ways that made most English straight men embarrassed and uncomfortable. The awkward way that he looked away whenever Sherlock caught him looking. The truth had been screaming at him and Sherlock had been too blind to notice.

Mycroft had known. He must have. Mycroft always noticed everything before Sherlock did, didn’t he? Was that what he had meant when he accused John of having a different disposition? Not that he was straight, but this? 

Sherlock clutched his mobile, stabbing at the keys as he pulled up Mycroft’s contact information. Mycroft picked up on the second ring. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. Of course Mycroft knew something was wrong. Sherlock had called instead of texted, and Sherlock had foolishly made his stress about this weekend well known. 

“Did you know that John is attracted to me?” Sherlock asked. “Sexually?”

The uncomfortable pause on the line screamed volumes.

“I suspected. What’s happened? Has he overstepped with you?”

Mycroft’s voice developed a fierce edge that promised dire agony to John if he so much as laid a finger on Sherlock in a way that he didn’t like.

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “He hasn’t done anything. He hadn’t even let on… I overheard him and Harry talking. The fights they’ve been having. It’s so obvious now. John has been attracted to men this whole time and didn’t want to admit it. He said that he fantasizes about me. That he’s in love with me.” 

Sherlock’s head fell forward, steps faltering, breaths growing short.

“You haven’t spoken to him yet, have you?”

Sherlock shook his head, never mind that Mycroft couldn’t even see him. There was no CCTV out here. 

“No. He should have told me. We promised to tell each other if we… I don’t care what kind of love he feels toward me, but I’m going around thinking it’s one thing, thinking we’re platonic partners, then it turns out it’s something else and he can’t even tell me.”

“Sherlock, breathe. Breathe for me, alright? It’s going to be okay.”

The last thing Sherlock thought he wanted was Mycroft’s reassurances, but God, did he need them right now, damn it all. He sucked in a series of deep breaths through his nose, straightening his spine. God, he needed a cigarette. His emergency stash. He should have brought it. Should have sewn it into the lining of his jacket. He’d known he should have, but he didn’t, like an idiot.

“Do you think that he’s going to want…” Sherlock’s voice wavered. “He might want sex with me?”

Mycroft sighed.

“I have no way of answering that question. What I do know is that he is devoted to you. You know perfectly well that I had my doubts about him, but he’s proven himself to be a good and trusty partner to you. He does love you and he has risen to my expectations in his care for you. I would be shocked indeed if he demanded something from you now that he knows you’re not willing to give.”

Sherlock breathed silently for a moment, then another. Another call came over the line. Sherlock’s shoulders tightened when he that saw it was John. 

“John’s calling,” Sherlock told Mycroft.

“Do you feel up to speaking to him?”

Sherlock shut his eyes for a second, dread beating in his ears.

“Yes. I think so. I have to.”

“You do. Let me know what happens.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock hung up and stared at the mobile screen, which still showed John’s incoming call. Breath burning in his throat, he pressed the button to accept the call. 

“John,” he said, voice as steady as he could make it.

“Thank God. Where are you? Mum says you rushed out. That you were upset.”

“I took a walk. I’m close by. John.” God, why was it so hard to get those words out of his mouth? “I heard you and Harry. It was an accident. Only about a minute, but it was enough.”

“Oh God,” John gasped. “Sherlock, I… I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to find out like this. Can you please come back so we can talk?”

“Yes. I’m returning now. We most certainly do need to talk.”

Sherlock hurried back, dreading every step he took. John met him at the front of the house, hands thrust in his trouser pockets, shoulders hunched and tense, the apprehension and concern in his face so palpable that Sherlock’s own nervousness eased a little. This wasn’t the face of a man who would betray him by demanding something that he didn’t want. John sprinted to him as soon as he saw him, reaching for him, but he jerked his arm to a stop halfway to Sherlock’s arm, afraid to touch him. 

Sherlock clamped down his teeth on a scream. He grabbed John’s hand and pulled him inside the house, ignoring the concerned eyes directed at them as they rushed upstairs to their bedroom and shut the door behind them. He let go of John as soon as he did so, crossing to the other side of the room by the window, sticking his right hand into his pocket while his left fingers clasped and unclasped beside him.

“I’m sorry,” John said, holding his hands helplessly in front of him. “I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have. Look, as long as you love me, it doesn’t much matter what kind it is. Platonic. Romantic. Whatever. But if we’re going around telling people one thing and I think it’s one thing, and it turns out to be another…”

“I do love you, Sherlock. I really do. Please, I just…” 

John stopped himself, huffing out a mirthless laugh. 

“We’ve never exchanged I love yous before,” he said.

No, they hadn’t.

“It never needed to be said,” Sherlock said. “We showed it well enough. Or so I thought.”

An agonizing silence descended between them. 

“What exactly did you hear?” John asked. 

Sherlock breathed slowly through his nose, keeping his gaze fixed in some vague spot beyond John’s head so that he could see his expression without having to meet his eyes.

“You saying that you’re in love with me. That you fantasize about me. Admitting that you’re not straight. I agree with Harry. It’s not healthy for you to keep that locked in. You should have come to me. I did wonder. Some of the things you said made me suspect that you might have felt attraction to men before but didn’t want to admit it.”

John had winced at the word “fantasize”, as had Sherlock while pushing it out of his mouth. John’s hands were back in his pockets again, gaze down, guilty as sin, scrambling for any way to fix this, but Sherlock couldn’t give him an easy out.

“How long have you known?” Sherlock asked.

John passed a weary hand over his face, sinking onto the bed as his knees gave out under him. 

“I’m not sure. A while. I’ve been subconsciously ignoring it, I think. I didn’t want to recognize it when I did. Like usual, your deduction was correct. I have been attracted to men before, but I told myself that I was just recognizing the fact that they were attractive. That there was nothing else beyond that. Look.” John turned toward Sherlock, meeting his eyes with a plaintive, earnest expression. “Before we go any further, I want to assure you that I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want. Just because I have… certain thoughts about you… God, I wish you hadn’t heard that. I don’t want anything else from you than what we have.”

John stood up and approached him slowly, so damn cautious now that it gritted Sherlock’s teeth. Sherlock kept still, breath caught in his throat as John reached out again, this time making contact with Sherlock’s hand hanging at his side. John squeezed gently.

“I don’t want anything between us to change,” he said. “Except I don’t want to date anyone else.”

Oh, thank God.

“Good, because I don’t want you to. I hated it when you went out on dates. I wanted to crawl out of my skin.”

John frowned at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a second.

“Because I’m a hypocrite, clearly. You made it clear that you want certain things. I was afraid you would no longer want to be partners.”

John looked down, shaking his head.

“I don’t want that from you. I just want to be with you. Okay?”

He reached up with his left hand and pressed it to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, breath softening into a gasp at the sudden intimacy of the gesture. Sherlock had never seen it before, that romantic, yearning gleam in John’s eyes, not directed at him, never begging with such desperate intensity. Or had he simply chosen not to see it? Had he also been purposely blind to the obvious truth standing in front of him?

John’s hand detached a little, uncertain again.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock raised his right hand and pressed it to John’s for a moment before grabbing it and lowering it in front of him so that he was holding both of John’s hands together. 

“You are sure?” he asked. “Absolutely sure that you won’t miss it?”

There was no need to elaborate on what “it” was. 

“I can’t say that I won’t, but I can do without. You, on the other hand… I can’t do without you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when my feelings changed. Or when I was aware that they changed. I was afraid to lose you, too. You’re uncomfortable with people thinking of you…” John’s gaze dipped for a moment, his jaw clenching. “…like that. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable.”

Sherlock breathed more easily, the pressure in his chest lifting.

“And you were so happy being platonic partners,” John continued. “That’s what you want. That’s what I agreed to. You didn’t agree to this. It seemed better not to tell you.”

“Or to admit it to yourself?”

John nodded. 

“We were happy. I didn’t want to mess that up.”

“But you weren’t fully happy. You were sacrificing your own mental comfort for my own. I don’t want you do that.”

“You were doing the same, weren’t you? We both promised to keep an open channel of communication and we failed miserably.”

“Let’s not do that again.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hands. “From now on, we will tell each other everything, no matter how uncomfortable.”

John nodded, squeezing back.

“Deal. On that note, you are sure that you’re okay with this? With me…” John looked down for a second, grimacing. “I won’t bother you with my thoughts, but—”

“Your thoughts are your own,” Sherlock said quickly, eager to get this part of the discussion over with. “You say that you won’t seek to act on them. I believe you.”

John shook his head, desperation in his eyes. 

“Never. I‘d never disrespect you like that.”

_I can’t do that to him._

Warmth glowed in Sherlock’s chest. Gently extricating his right hand from John’s, he brushed it through John’s hair like he’d done so many times before, smiling as John’s eyelids fluttered in delight and reassurance.

“The thing I am most absolutely certain of in this world,” Sherlock said, “is that I can trust you.”

He laid his hand across John’s cheek like John had done before with him, heart quickening at the affection in John’s eyes. 

“You can,” John said fervently. “I’d never hurt you, not if I can help it.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. 

“I know. I love you.”

John grinned so widely that a small chuckle spilled out. 

“I love you, too.”

He gripped Sherlock’s waist with his free hand, tugging him forward into a hug, pressing his face to Sherlock’s clavicle. Sherlock lowered his head, nuzzling John’s hair, sliding his right hand down his back to hold him fast. His body relaxed, the stress and fear of the last hour fading away as he sank into the comfort and surety of John, his John, always his sweet, loving John. How could he have feared that John could hurt him in such a manner after he had sacrificed his own emotional wellbeing for Sherlock’s peace of mind? 

“Lie down?” Sherlock suggested softly.

“God, yes.”

Toeing off their shoes, they climbed into bed and nestled into each other, arms wrapping around waists, knees sliding gently atop each other. John’s smile turned rueful for a second as he played with a strand of Sherlock’s fringe on the pillow.

“You know,” he said, “it was thinking that this was all platonic for me that allowed me to get more comfortable with it. To recognize that I liked it. It felt safer like that. I feel like a liar now, like I led you on.”

“It’s alright. It wasn’t intentional. You didn’t know yourself then. Now that you do, is there a term you’d like to use? Bisexual? Pansexual?”

John considered for a moment.

“Bisexual works.” John snorted humorlessly. “Harry told me ages ago that she thought I was bi, but I didn’t want to consider it.”

Sherlock rubbed his thumb at the center of John’s back in slow circles.

“It’s hard to accept at times when you’re not like most,” he said. “Especially when that fact makes navigating the world even harder than it already is.”

John sighed.

“Yeah, I’ve learned that. Even more now. But I didn’t have any trouble accepting Harry or you. Or anyone else. Just me.” He looked away, discomfort and shame in his face. “I feel like a hypocrite. It’s not that I don’t think it’s okay for me to be like this, but I feel that part of me did think that. Why else would it be so bloody hard to accept it?”

His arm shifted awkwardly on Sherlock’s back, right hand clenching between them, jaw tight, guilt radiating off him in waves. 

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled. “I shouldn’t… shouldn’t be talking like this.”

Sherlock rubbed up his back and slid his hand through John’s hair, kneading his skull with his fingertips as he covered John’s hand with his own, coaxing the tense fingers open. They closed immediately around his hand. 

“John.” Sherlock waited until John looked up at him to continue. “What did we just promise?”

A sigh scrapped along John’s throat and he nodded in resignation.

“I know. I just don’t want you to think… Not that my thing is the same as your thing, but… I just—”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock interrupted before John could work himself up into even more of a nervous wreck. He kept stroking his head, carding his fingers gently through his hair. “I understand what you mean. It’s alright to be scared.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m scared exactly.”

“Nervous, then. Uncertain about how to proceed going forward. Not sure how to reconcile this new perspective of yourself with the image you used to have.”

Gratitude shone in John’s eyes.

“I should defer to your expertise, shouldn’t I?”

Sherlock smiled.

“Always.”

“Was it this hard for you when you realized?”

Sherlock thought over the question. 

“Not exactly. In a way, it was an immediate comfort to have an explanation for my dissonance with the people around me. This particular one, in any case. And it felt like such an inconvenience to engage in these sorts of relationships, which I had no interest in. Although I have learned that this is not so with the right partner.” 

Sherlock smiled a bit to remove the sting of his bluntness. He was rewarded with a wobbly smile from John.

“Yes, you did make that clear when we met.”

“But there were frustrations. I had to learn via observation and research all these little indicators that others take for granted. Flirting, suggestive eye contact, particular body language, what romantic and sexual interest drives people to do and not do. It’s hampered my work a fair bit not to have an instinct for such things. And the knowledge of being cut off from the rest of the world in yet another way, and one that feels so essential to people… Well, it did have its rough patches at first.”

John stroked his toes along the top of Sherlock’s right foot.

“The positive attention these last weeks has been good, hasn’t it?” he said. 

Sherlock nodded. It had been surprisingly satisfying not to feel so alone among the mass of humanity that he had always endeavored not to fuss overmuch with. 

“There are many more bi people than there are aces,” he said. “If you want to seek them out.”

John thought it over. 

“Maybe. I don’t know yet if I want to do that. God, I identified myself as straight in our announcement just three weeks ago.”

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

“People change their labels all the time. It wasn’t malicious.”

“But I already knew, just didn’t want to admit it. That’s why I was fighting with Harry.”

“I know. But it’s alright. You can post a retraction, if you like.”

“No, I think I’d like to keep it to ourselves for now. Well, us, Harry, and mum, although she wouldn’t tell mum without my permission, but there’s no getting out of that one. Not after our little show downstairs.”

“Your mum will be fine with it. She accepted Harry being gay.”

“Yeah.” John nodded slowly to himself. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.” He sucked in a deep breath. “God, I really am coming out of the closet now.”

“Mycroft already knows. He figured it out.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Of course he did. Wait, when did he tell you that?”

“I called him after I left the house. He said that he’d suspected. Actually, I need to text him. Let him know that our relationship didn’t implode.”

Sherlock turned to the side to pull out his mobile from his pocket and lied on his back as he composed the text.

“Should I be expecting another threatening visit after this?” John asked.

Sherlock lowered the phone, frowning at John.

“You said that he didn’t threaten you last time.”

“Not with words. But you know how he loves to give off an air of menace. He’d dialed it up to a hundred that day.”

“Well, there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

 _We talked it over. He doesn’t want to change anything in our relationship,_ Sherlock wrote.

 _I’m very glad to hear that,_ Mycroft texted back almost immediately.

A smile jerked on Sherlock’s lips.

“What should we call our relationship now?” Sherlock asked, putting down the mobile. “Since you feel romantic feelings for me, does that make it a romantic relationship?”

John frowned.

“Well, you would know more than me, but why would it be romantic if you don’t have romantic feelings for me?”

“Some aros are in romantic relationships when their partner feels it.”

“Okay, but we established this as a platonic relationship. That’s a big deal to you.”

“It’s fine. As long as we’re together, I don’t care what the label is.”

“But I don’t want to take that away from you. I may not have accepted what I was really feeling until now, but I like that we’re in an unconventional relationship. I’m proud of it. I’m proud that you’re different. I don’t want to go back to a conventional label now. And if only one of us is feeling romantic, why should we? Isn’t there something else we can use?”

“Not that I’m aware of. We could just dispense with labels altogether and say we’re in a relationship. We don’t have to make a new announcement on your blog. Just carry on.”

“Carrying on sounds good. I guess not using labels also works, although…”

“People automatically assume it means a romantic one. I know.” Sherlock stroked John’s hair, brushing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “It really is alright, John. We know what we have. And the world already knows that we’re not doing the usual thing. That’s enough for me.”

John nodded after a moment.

“Okay.”

They lied in silence for a bit, gazing into each other’s eyes, Sherlock eagerly examining the depth of the love he found there and wishing that he could sweep away the nerves pressing at the corners of John’s lips away as easily as he stroked his skin. 

“We need to leave this room eventually, don’t we?” John said, voice filled with dread.

“It will be fine.”

Sherlock leaned forward and did something he’d never done before. He kissed John on the cheek. A surprised smile lit up John’s face.

“I liked that,” he said.

“Me, too. I’m sorry it wasn’t on the mouth.”

“Hey, no. We don’t do that. No apologizing for things we don’t like, remember?”

Yes, one of the many stipulations they’d agreed to at the beginning of their relationship.

“I retract my apology, then.”

“Good.”

John sucked in a deep breath, then another before sitting up and sliding to the edge of the bed. 

“Come on,” he said, far from enthusiastic. “Might as well get it over with.” 

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand as they descended the staircase, his grip growing tenser with every step. Sherlock squeezed back in reassurance, wishing that he knew how to project calm toward him. He was so focused on John that he didn’t have any energy to spare to slip on his sociable mask, but he was too emotionally exhausted to care. Besides, he’d put on enough of a show for the past two days, and this moment was about John, not him. 

Harry and Sylvia were sitting at the kitchen table, cups of tea in front of them, worry radiating off them as they turned toward Sherlock and John.

“We’re okay,” John said quickly, smiling tightly at Harry, who relaxed a bit at seeing their clasped hands. “We talked things over. It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Sylvia asked. “Harry won’t tell me anything. All I know is that Sherlock overheard you two talking about something that upset him.”

“Don’t be angry at Harry, mum. It wasn’t her place to say. I should have been the one doing it a long time ago, but I didn’t. To Sherlock especially, but…”

John was rambling again, but Sherlock wouldn’t be rushing him this time.

“Look,” John said, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m not… straight.”

“You’re gay,” Sylvia said, matter of fact.

“What? No, I’m bi. Bisexual. I fancy everyone, I guess.” John squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled to figure out his phrasing. “Can fancy anyone. I only fancy Sherlock, though. Not that… That doesn’t mean that… We’re not—”

“Our relationship remains unchanged,” Sherlock said, saving John from his increasing flustering. “The only difference is that John has come to this realization about himself.”

John flashed a grateful smile.

“Yes, what Sherlock said.”

John’s grasp on Sherlock’s hand had reached death grip levels as he waited nervously for his mum to react, watching her with terrified expectation, but there was no need for him to worry. Sylvia’s posture was open, not closed off in disapproval. She stood up and went to John, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“As long as you’re happy,” she said, “it doesn’t matter to me who you fancy or don’t fancy. You know that, right?”

John gasped out a relieved breath, nodding.

“Yeah.” 

He let go of Sherlock to hug his mum. Sherlock exhaled his own, quieter sigh of relief. They would be alright. Everything would be alright. 

`````````````````

John immediately sat next to Sherlock on the train on the way home. Bodies pressed together and hands clasped in his lap as John looked at Sherlock’s phone over his shoulder before dozing off, head lolling gently on his shoulder. Their departure had gone better than Sherlock had hoped for. Sylvia had hugged both of them and told Sherlock how happy she had been to meet him. 

“I could tell how hard you were trying,” she’d said in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “John describes you quite differently in his blog.”

Sherlock had floundered, at a sudden loss for words, but he smiled in admiration at Sylvia’s perspicacity. 

“I should have known I wouldn’t be able to fool you,” he’d said. “John got his smarts from somewhere, after all.”

“There’s no need to keep flattering me. But the effort is appreciated.”

As was the flattery, given the pleased smile on her face. 

The weekend had been a success. Sherlock made a good impression and they finally dragged what had been bothering John out in the open. However, John was still jittery and emotionally tender at coming out to his mum and Sherlock, as well as to himself. Sherlock knew exactly how he felt. A sliver of guilt pooled in his belly at having run out of the house the way that he did and having suspected for a moment that John might ask for more of him, but there had been no guarantee that John would be happy under their new circumstances. There still wasn’t. The old fear remained. Yet it had faded to a pale shadow of what it had been before. He trusted John with his life and with his heart. He never needed to doubt that trust.

A package with an envelope taped to it waited for them at their flat. Mycroft had delivered them to Mrs. Hudson a couple of hours before they arrived. A present for John. 

_I must apologize for doubting your sincerity towards my brother earlier,_ it read.. _You have proven yourself a worthy partner to him, and for that you have my thanks. Also, congratulations on your new self-realization. Consider this a small token of my appreciation._

Inside the package lied a wool scarf, the yarn variegated in hues of blue, purple and pink. A match for the purple, grey, black, and white scarf Mycroft had given Sherlock years ago. He must know that John wouldn’t wear it in public, but that wasn’t the point. The amazed smile on John’s face was.

“Does this mean that he accepts me as his brother-in-law now?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, it does,” Sherlock said, tugging him close and wrapping the scarf around his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you liked it.


End file.
